It's Not Easy
by Ashvarden
Summary: After the events of OotP, Harry undergoes a transformation. When he goes to stay with an old friend for the summer, he finally is able to control his destiny and become the man he was born to be. HarryViktor slash.
1. Chapter 1

Power flowed unchecked through his veins, scorching and soothing at the same time. His eyes glowed a piercing emerald as his mouth opened in a silent scream, a pulsating emerald light cloaking him in raw power. The pulsing light started at his feet and spread up his legs to his waist, across his stomach and chest, and to his neck. Teeth gritted in agony; he arched off the bed, thrashing fruitlessly. The area between his shoulder blades was on fire, and pain to rival the Cruciatus Curse flooded his senses, centered on his back. The pain became too much as he felt something forcing its way out between his shoulder blades, and everything went black. He looked every bit a fallen angel, his dark, wild locks falling in his eyes, naked from the waist up to reveal a toned, broad-shouldered but lean build, limbs splayed across his bed. And wrapped around his torso protectively, looking as if they were the most natural things in the world, was a set of huge, glossy jet-black wings. A quiet beep broke the heavy silence. The alarm clock on the bedside table clearly read 12:00 midnight, July 31.

Harry awoke slowly, and clenched his eyes shut again as light assaulted them mercilessly. He resisted the urge to yawn, opting to stretch languidly instead. His muscles screamed in protest, and his back felt odd. Not a bad sort of odd, just different than normal. He stood shakily, rubbing his eyes. That was when he noticed that he wasn't wearing his glasses. But he could see perfectly, even better than with his glasses on. Eyebrows knitted together in confusion, he stumbled over to the wardrobe and selected a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. He hurried into the bathroom and showered quickly, making sure to leave enough hot water for the Dursleys. He avoided his back, and resisted the urge to feel around to make sure there wasn't something wrong with his shoulders.

He tugged on the jeans and stood before the mirror, shirt in hand. What he saw made him stumble back in shock. He looked completely different. His eyes were the same as ever, but his previously untamable hair was splayed attractively across his face, just shy of getting in his eyes. His normally sunburned skin was merely tanned, and all the bruises on his body, courtesy of Dudley, were healed. His facial features were also a bit different, sharper, more defined. He noted that he was also a couple inches taller, and a bit broader in the shoulders. But all of those changes, while they made him look older and more mature, were nothing compared to the wings. Huge and sweeping, they were the deepest black he'd ever seen, and gleamed in the light. When fully spread, his wingspan was an even 8 feet, 4 on either side of his body.

He flexed them experimentally, and was pleased to note that they were easy to move, like an extension of his limbs. A slow smirk crossed his face as he examined his new and improved physique, but soon enough he heard Uncle Vernon pounding on the bathroom door. Concentrating, he willed the wings to disappear. Like magic, they retracted smoothly into his back, between his shoulder blades. The only evidence they'd ever been there were two slim scars, where his wings would surface when he willed them to. Satisfied, he pulled his shirt on. With a cursory once-over for his hair (it didn't really need it) he opened the door and brushed past his Uncle.

Vernon colored slightly, but didn't say anything besides a few grumbled insults. Shrugging, Harry made his way downstairs and into the empty kitchen. Hurriedly, he made himself a thick sandwich and slipped outside, before his Uncle came down and went off on him for 'wasting' food.

He ate his breakfast while going for his morning run. At least three different girls waved at him as he passed, and he grinned back at them. Maybe the changes weren't so bad after all.

After he returned from his run, he washed up and retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his room. No one would bother him in here. At least not if they wanted to keep all of their limbs intact and functioning. Not that he was actually planning on dissecting them, but it made a very persuasive threat.

Sighing, he threw himself onto the bed, but not before tugging his shirt off. He quite liked his new wings, but obviously it wouldn't do to have the neighbors see them, so he kept away from the window when he willed them to surface. Painlessly this time, they appeared smoothly, the glossy black feathers as natural against his tanned skin as anything he'd ever known. Hedwig hooted at him from her cage, where she was preening herself meticulously. Contented, he lay back and closed his eyes, relaxing.

A tap at the window tore him from his thoughts, and he tried to ignore it, to sink back into the half-asleep state he had previously been in. No such luck. The tap came again, more insistent this time. Muttering under his breath, he hauled himself to his feet and folded his wings against his back to keep anyone looking at his window from seeing them. He opened the window with a bit more force than necessary, and waited impatiently for Pig to flutter inside quite enthusiastically.

"Stupid, psychotic owls," he muttered crossly as he detached the letter and flopped back onto his bed to read it. Suppressing a yawn, he started to read a bit more sluggishly than usual. The farther his eyes traveled down the parchment, however, the grimmer his expression became.

It wasn't really much of a letter, more of a note if you asked him. A short note, at that.

_Harry,_

_I'm not supposed to owl you. Dumbledore's orders. I wrote you this so you won't be angry that we didn't write to you. I'm sending this for 'Mione, too, by the way. She's at Headquarters with us for a couple of weeks while her parents go to Canada for some 'seminar' thingy for dentists. Sorry you can't be here, too, mate, but it's for the best, I guess. _

_Mum mentioned that she was going to talk to Dumbledore about you coming to stay with us, but I doubt it'll do much good. The Headmaster said that you needed time alone to grieve, and we're not supposed to contact you in any way. I'm guessing that includes talking to you. Sorry mate. Have fun at the Muggles'. Don't bother writing back, I doubt I can reply to it. _

_Ron_

His eyes narrowed dangerously, until they were like chips of emerald ice. It almost sounded like Ron was blowing him off. Several lines had a funny ring to them, and didn't seem right. _'Sorry you can't be here, too, mate, but it's for the best, I guess.' _What the hell was Ron playing at? Grabbing up a quill, he scratched out what he hoped was a semi-respectful letter to the Headmaster.

_**Headmaster Dumbledore,**_

_**It has recently come to light that I will possibly be staying here for the remainder of the summer, and I would like to ask why. I would also like to know if my friends are being allowed to write to me. If not, what are your reasons for not allowing them to? **_

_**I know you mean well, but recently, I have found your methods to be less than satisfactory. Blood relative or not, Petunia Dursley should not have been my legal guardian. I was told not long ago that my mother specifically requested that I not go to her sister. I would very much like to know your reasoning in that situation as well.**_

**_This might sound a bit rude, but I don't want to stay here, and if you don't get me out of this hellhole, I'll leave on my own, blood wards or not. The Dursleys hate me, and it's mutual, I really think it would be better to get me out of here before we get into another fight like the one before my 3rd year, when I used accidental magic on my aunt Marge for calling my mum a worthless bitch._**

_**I know you think you're doing what's best for me, but I certainly don't see what you've been doing in the same light. You have withheld important information that could have stopped me from going to the Ministry, and neglected to tell me why exactly you were avoiding me all year.**_

_**You know what I'm talking about, Headmaster. I know you never meant to mess things up so badly, but I find that forgiving someone for something recognized as a poor decision is much harder than to forgive perceived wrongs.**_

_**Harry James Potter**_

"Hedwig, will you take this to Albus Dumbledore for me? Don't worry about waiting for a reply." The snowy owl hooted gently and offered her leg so he could tie his letter to it. With an affectionate nip to his ear, she took flight elegantly and soared away in the general direction of Hogwarts.

He watched her until she was scarcely a speck on the horizon, then settled down on his bed to start on his summer homework.

At dinnertime he was downstairs long enough to collect his meager helping of chicken, and went outside to eat it. He was careful to retract his wings before he was in the Dursley's questionable presence. Stretching languidly, he unfocused his gaze and scanned the back yard for signs of movement. It was almost ridiculously easy to find Snape and Mundungus. He could smell them a mile away. Wait, smell them?

He sniffed cautiously at the air, and blinked. Apparently the…whatever it was…had done more than give him wings and fix his eyesight. His eyes were sharper than ever, and he found that in addition to his enhanced sight and smell, his hearing was keener as well. He could hear Snape breathing. Shrugging, he silently thanked the gods that he hadn't been gifted with enhanced sense of taste. He couldn't hide the shudder that went through him at the thought of drinking healing potions with enhanced taste buds, or eating Aunt Petunia's tuna casserole, now that he thought about it.

He almost let his thoughts drift away to a new topic, then it struck him. Just like that. Smirking, he sprinted into the house to check the clock. 6:37. Perfect, he thought. This would make things a lot easier.

He grabbed a ballpoint pen and a scrap of blank paper off the kitchen counter and scribbled down the date, time, and who was on guard duty. If he could sniff out who was on the other rounds and when, he had a valuable aid to helping him leave if Dumbledore didn't take his threats seriously, or trusted him to be the good little Gryffindor and listen to the Headmaster.

With a wicked smile, he decided that if he left it would be on Snape's round. He might have felt a bit guilty about running off on Remus's guard, or on one of the Weasley's, and that would have ruined the thrill of flouting authority and taking matters into his own hands.

He folded the paper up, tossed the pen on the counter, and hurried up the stairs to his room. He was halfway there when he heard his aunt's familiar shriek.

"BOY! Get down here and wash the dishes! You pull your own weight around here, or else!"

He was tempted to tell her to shove it, but decided that would only get him beaten again, so he bit his lip to prevent any comments from slipping out and walked slowly down the stairs. Aunt Petunia was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding a feather duster and a bag of crisps.

"Here you go, Duddy," she simpered, handing him the bag. Dudley smirked at him before waddling back into the living room, where the telly was blaring. Rolling his eyes, he swept past his aunt and into the kitchen. She sneered at him as he passed, and he stopped in the doorway.

"Yes?"

"Get your hair cut, boy. I won't have you going about looking like a hoodlum and giving the neighbors a reason to think you're even more abnormal than they suspected!"

Harry shrugged, "Fine. I'm not cutting it, by the way. I happen to like it, and besides, I know for a fact that Dudley's friend Piers has hair the same length." He ignored her indignant sputtering and vanished into the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he dared to add, "Not that it actually looks good on him, he doesn't have the right features to pull off the windswept look. When you're a Seeker, it looks natural."

Apparently she understood the last bit, because she snapped harshly, "What have I told you about saying things like that? I won't have you spouting this, this…unnatural garbage in my house!"

He rolled his eyes again, but didn't comment. He'd riled her enough already, any more and she might snap. Wordlessly, he turned on the water and started the dishes.

The next several days passed in a blur, until the Headmaster's reply finally arrived. A Hogwarts owl delivered it, and he wasn't the least bit surprised to see it preening itself pompously. He waved the owl over to meet Hedwig, and opened the letter, intent on getting it over with.

_Harry,_

_I understand that you're still grieving for Sirius, and will overlook the undertones you not-quite-voiced in your letter. Yes, I have a very good reason for sending you to live with your aunt and uncle, not the least of which that I wanted you to have a normal childhood, away from the pressures of the Wizarding World. Aside from that, there are the undeniable benefits of the blood wards, and the fact that they are your only remaining family. Seeing as your stated guardian was unable to take custody of you, I assumed you would be better off with your relatives than in a random wizarding home, or an orphanage. _

_Please, I ask you to stay at Privet Drive. You are safer there than anywhere else. Not even Headquarters is infallible. If you leave, you are an easy target for the Death Eaters or Voldemort. I understand that you are restless, of course there are guards posted to ensure your safety._

_As for communication with your friends, after last year I decided that cutting you off from the Wizarding World was not the best idea. I told Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger that they could owl you as much as they like, provided they don't write anything that would be dangerous to us, should the owls be intercepted. You and your friends are free to write each other as much as you like, Harry. I sincerely hope you will at least talk to them about how you are feeling. It's not good to keep things bottled up inside, Harry._

_I regret that we have drifted so far apart that you don't see that I am only trying to protect you. You might not particularly care for your relatives, but I assure you that you are far better off there than anywhere else. The Burrow is not protected enough to keep you safe, despite several new wards, and I don't believe Headquarters would be the best place for you. _

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

He blinked, and read the letter again. Then, slowly, a look of disgust and hurt settled on his face. Ron lied to him so he wouldn't have to write to him over the summer! Hermione as well! He slapped the parchment down on his desk, venting his anger on the furnishings. What kind of friends abandoned you when things started to heat up? Who would just up and do something like that, out of the blue? He considered the possibility of someone forging Ron's letter, but dismissed the possibility pretty quickly. Ron had a very unique writing style; he jumped from one subject to another almost constantly, and his letters usually took a couple times through to understand completely. If it were a forgery, it wouldn't have sounded just like his former best mate, and it had been in his handwriting exactly. Just in case, and not willing to jump to hasty conclusions (the Ministry disaster had taught him that) he dug one of Ron's older letters out of his trunk to compare the handwriting. After a few moments of deliberation, he admitted defeat. It was exactly like Ron's right down to the weird curve at the end of his A's.

"Damn it."

He collapsed onto his bed, cradling his head in his hands. The letter dropped from numb fingers, only to be snatched up again a moment later. After his brief meltdown, he stood shakily, and walked over to the rickety desk by the window. His eyes were cold and icy, veiling the hurt and betrayal evident in his intense emerald gaze. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes were glowing faintly, not much, but just enough to be noticeable if you were looking.

He stuffed the letters into the back of his photo album, where he kept all of his personal letters and notes, along with a few random pictures via Colin Creevey and his obsession with taking photos of seemingly random things. Leafing through the stack, he noticed a few featuring the Gryffindor Quidditch team practicing or in a match. There was a memorable one from second year, capturing him and Malfoy trying to avoid the bludgers and catch the Snitch at the same time, during the match that Dobby had charmed the bludgers to chase after him. As he watched, a faceless Gryffindor supporter blew him a kiss as he flashed by.

Blinking, he flipped that picture to the bottom of the stack and examined another photo, this one from his 4th year. It was a picture of him with the other Champions, who after the initial disbelief and perhaps a tad of jealousy, had warmed up to him, the boys in particular. Fleur had liked him well enough after the second task and Cedric of course hadn't held anything against him after warning him about the first task. Viktor, though, had been the breakthrough. He hadn't really had a good reason for accepting Harry, but had anyway, and their friendship had flourished and grown into something more.

After the famous International Quidditch player had accepted his presence, nearly the entire school was vying to get back into his good graces. The picture, from a bit before the third task, was of the four of them near the lake, with Cedric and Fleur standing a bit closer than was usual for 'just' friends. Viktor, in turn, was standing next to them, smiling, a rare sight, even among his friends and family. Even from early on, he'd always been a quiet, serious child, with a particular talent for flying. Harry was standing next to the taller Slavic man, who'd slung an arm around his shoulders in a casual gesture. As he watched, Viktor reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

He sensed more than heard Uncle Vernon waddling up the stairs, and quickly put it behind his back. His Uncle pounded on the door before barging in, his eyes narrowed.

"Boy, your Aunt tells me you were mouthing off. I'm warning you now, do anything of the sort again, and you'll go in the cupboard under the stairs for a week!" He emphasized his point by jabbing Harry roughly in the ribs. Then his piggy eyes spied the picture he was trying to discreetly hide, and snatched it away. His eyes grew wide and angry as his face changed to a very unbecoming puce shade.

"What the hell is this, boy?" he demanded furiously, waving a hand at the moving picture. Harry flushed and tried to snatch it away from him.

"It's me with a few of my friends from school, the year before last. Now give it back!"

Uncle Vernon sneered, looking again at the photo. "Looks like you were a bit more than friends, boy. Who's the one man-handling you?" He smirked at Harry's angry look, but then registered what he'd just said, and the fact that the dark-haired boy hadn't denied that there was anything going on between them, and his face turned even darker with anger.

His answer was "Viktor. Give it here!" he snarled, and made a grab for the picture once again.

He threw the picture back in disgust, and sneered, "You're pathetic, Potter. You're an even bigger freak than I thought!" He started to continue his rant, but was cut off by Harry growling, "Shut up. Just shut up." His tone was low and barbed, dangerously soft, with an almost hissing quality to it. His eyes were darkened with anger and they glowed, a shimmering emerald green.

Vernon Dursley, incensed at being ordered to shut up in his own house, coupled with the fact that he'd never been the brightest bulb in the box, took a swing at him. Harry ducked; his Quidditch honed reflexes the only thing keeping him from being knocked out cold by his Uncle. As blubbery and lazy as he was, Uncle Vernon packed a powerful punch, something Dudley had obviously inherited. He turned on his heel, leaning sideways to avoid a hooked punch to his head, and lashed out with his foot, hoping to slow his Uncle down enough to get to his wand, lying on the nightstand.

His foot connected solidly with his Uncle's face, with enough force to break his rather piggish nose. Vernon staggered back, holding his face with hands that were rapidly being covered with blood. Through the pain, he leveled his most threatening gaze at his nephew. It promised pain, and lots of it.

Refusing to be intimidated, he leaped over the bed and snatched up his wand, pointing it threateningly at his Uncle. "Move and I'll stun you."

The beefy, middle-aged man glared, but stayed where he was, not wanting to risk any more injuries. Harry jerked his arm, gesturing at the door. "Go on then, get out. I'm getting my stuff and leaving." He accentuated his point by grabbing a pile of texts off his desk and piling them into his trunk.

Uncle Vernon shot him a venomous look and left the room, sneering nastily, "You'll get your due, boy, mark my words. I hope you enjoy hell, brat."

Harry ignored his words as best he could, tossing random items into his trunk. His mind was whirling. He couldn't go back to Grimmauld Place, not so soon after Sirius's death. The Burrow was out as well; Ron had made it very clear that their friendship wasn't as strong as it had appeared to be. He wasn't going to go to Hogwarts, either. Snape stayed there during the summer, and so did Dumbledore. Right now he didn't particularly care for the thought of spending the summer with either of them, or even worse, both of them. No, he would find somewhere else to go. Somewhere where the Order wouldn't find him and force him to go back to number 4, but not somewhere so off the wall he would be mugged the second he left his hotel room. He turned to pick up the picture, now torn a bit on one of the edges, and it hit him.

Hedwig weaved through the labyrinth of streets, cutting through the air on silent wings. Finally, she arrived at her destination. It was a long flight to Sofia, and she was tired and worn. Alighting on the windowsill of the letter's receiver, she tapped at the glass with her beak.

Viktor Nikolai Krum was not a light sleeper by any standards, but the urgency of the tapping sent him to the window anyway, clad in nothing but his pajama bottoms. His short, glossy ebony hair was sleep tousled and his unintelligible dark brown eyes were tired, but he looked every bit the well built professional Quidditch player he was.

Yawning, he let the owl in. Through his sleep-clouded mind, he vaguely recognized Hedwig for who she belonged to. Fumbling, he detached the rolled up letter and waved her over to the cage stand in the corner, where his own owl, Orion, was perched.

_**Viktor,**_

_**I know we haven't talked in a while, but I've been kind of out of it, and I'm starting to find that I don't have as many friends as I thought I did. Ron and Hermione skipped out on me, and doubtless others will follow their lead. I feel kind of bad for shoving this on you, I mean we haven't really known each other all that long, barring passing references. But you're the only one I can turn to. I don't trust anyone else right now to a) keep his or her mouth shut, or b) listen to what I'm saying. **_

_**I got in a fight with my Uncle earlier today. I think I pushed him too far this time. He kicked me out; doubtless everyone will find a way to blame me for it. **_

_**I'm at the Leaky Cauldron now, and hopefully I can figure out somewhere to go before I'm found and dragged off to Headquarters. **_

**_Sorry if I sound like I'm whining. I'm just freaked out over a few things lately. Do you know if it's normal for someone to grow wings on their 16th birthday? If it's not, I seem to be in a bit of a bind, then. Anyway, how's Quidditch going? I heard you guys beat Varna at your last match, 310-60. Not bad if you ask me, seeing as their Beaters are nightmares on brooms. _**

_**Harry**_

He stared incredulously at the parchment for a bit, then reread the letter. A frown creased his brow as he discovered that Hermione wasn't as loyal and trusting as he'd thought, and he felt a pang of sympathy when he abruptly changed the subject. Wings, though? That was interesting.

Face a mask of determination, he dressed and pocketed his wand, preparing to apparate to England. He wasn't about to leave his friend to fend for himself. Especially not Harry. With a soft crack, he vanished. ****


	2. Chapter 2

Viktor appeared with a soft crack at the Diagon Alley apparation point. He was a little drained from the long apparation, but otherwise fine. Pulling his light cloak tighter around him to ward off the late night chill, he hurried inside. It was eleven p.m. and most patrons had already disappeared up to their rooms, but a few individuals were scattered about the room, either drunk, on their way to such a point, or entirely too sober for their liking. Running a hand through his short, dark hair, he walked up to the bar, where Tom was cleaning up.

"Excuse me, vould you mind telling vot room Harry Potter is in?"

Tom looked up, surprised to hear someone asking him a question and not slurring it drunkenly. "I'm not in the practice of telling that sort of thing to anyone who asks. Tell me who you are, and I might."

Leaning in closer, he said quietly, "Viktor Krum."

At the bartender's disbelieving look, he lowered his hood to reveal his unmistakable profile. Tom immediately nodded, offering a hand and talking enthusiastically.

"Mr. Krum, of course! Sorry about that, I didn't recognize you, sir. You wanted Mr. Potter's room number, correct?" At Viktor's patient nod, he answered in a low voice. "Room 11. Best knock loudly, though. The lad wasn't in the best mood when he checked in earlier, and it'd be a pity if the Vultures lost their Seeker."

He nodded, filing away Tom's remarks, and set a handful of galleons on the bar. "Neither of us were ever here. You have no idea where Harry Potter is, and you never saw him."

Tom nodded agreeably. "Of course, Mr. Krum, of course."

He pocketed the money gladly, tucking it away to sort out later. His toothless grin was gleeful as he recommenced wiping down the counter. Viktor, meanwhile, climbed the stairs somewhat apprehensively. He hadn't seen Harry in person since the TriWizard Tournament over a year ago, and he really didn't know what to expect.

He found room 11 easily enough, and knocked a tad nervously. His face was stoic, masking his nerves as he waited. Harry answered the door sleepily, and upon recognizing him, ushered him in.

"Viktor, what are you doing here?" he asked as he gestured for him to sit down.

Looking around at the decently sized room, Viktor replied, "Coming to get you. You said it vas only a matter of days before you vere found, and I came to make sure that doesn't happen. You need help; I'm giving it."

He directed a look at the younger boy that stopped his protests in his throat. "Alright." Harry's voice was low, but his tone was unmistakably deeper. He looked a lot less like a scrawny, scared little kid than he had only a year before. He'd just had his 16th birthday, Viktor recalled. July 31, wasn't it? Yes, because he remembered it was 12 days before his own, August 12.

He looked the new Harry up and down, trying to remember what he'd looked like before. Attractive, yes, in an innocent, unassuming way, but now…now he was the very definition of the word 'irresistible'. Taller now, approximately 5' 8", with a powerful build, not ripped, but lean and wiry, with the strength of someone twice his size. His eyes were the same vibrant emerald as ever, though they were no longer hidden behind glasses, and his previously scruffy raven hair was longer and silkier, just long enough to get in his eyes. He was dressed in regular clothing, though his feet were bare.

Viktor pushed down the feelings welling up inside him, offering a rare half-smile to the younger boy. Harry returned it tentatively, discreetly eyeing the older boy as well.

He liked what he saw. Tall and well built, with short, dark hair, intelligent eyes so dark a brown as to be nearly black, a healthy tan, and hawkish features. Instead of his nose looking out of place, it added character to his face. His round shoulders and duck-footed walk were unique and proved he wasn't perfect. They made him seem more real, like he was just your everyday 19-year-old. Harry quickly gathered together the few things he'd taken from his trunk and put his trainers on hurriedly. Viktor wordlessly shrunk his trunk and handed it to him. Harry pocketed it gladly. "Thanks. How are we leaving?" he asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Viktor answered, "Side-Along-Apparation."

Harry nodded, trying to act like he knew how exactly he was going to do that. "Of course. Er, how exactly do you do that again?" Viktor's only answer was to take a step forward, stand behind him, and wrap his arms around him.

"Hold on."

Harry subtly leaned into the embrace, reveling in the sensation of the Quidditch player's toned, warm body pressed against his back. With only a whisper of sound, considerably quieter than normal because two levels of power were working together, they vanished.

They reappeared in the hall a moment later, outside the door to Viktor's flat. He owned a flat in the nicer part of Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, within easy Apparation distance of the Vultures practice pitch. Quietly, so as to not disturb his neighbors, he unlocked the door and let the two of them in. Stepping inside, Harry got a good look at place. It wasn't huge, but it was definitely nothing to scoff at, and the décor seemed nice enough. The entryway was nice, with a few hooks for clothes and a mat to wipe his feet on. The fact that it was an exact replica of a Quidditch pitch wasn't lost on him, nor were the simple words, Home Sweet Home, underneath it.

The floor was carpeted in plush crimson, and the walls were caramel-colored paneling. Appreciatively, he said softly, "Nice place."

Viktor merely offered him that rare half-smile and herded him into the living room. "Sit. I haff a guest room; I'll get it set up. There's food in the kitchen, eat votever you vant." Harry smiled, thanked him, and pulled off his jacket, hanging it up by the door. Awkwardly, he ventured into the living room as Viktor disappeared, presumably to get his room together. He saw that the same theme was present here, though it was mixed stylishly with black. The furniture was mostly black or caramel, some a combination of all three colors; there were two reclining chairs and a nice leather couch, with a mahogany coffee table between them, and, surprisingly, a TV and two huge windows overlooking Sofia. The flat was obviously on at least the second or third floor. The Quidditch gear scattered around the room, however, softened its neat perfection, and the pictures pinned up above the fireplace added a personal touch.

He was surprised to find a picture of Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and him over the mantle, between a picture of the Vratsa Vultures and a photo of a smiling woman with long dark hair, delicate features, and warm brown eyes. She looked an awful lot like Viktor, even though her build was decidedly different, being both petite and distinctly female.

His stomach interrupted his inspection of the room, and he obliged it. Venturing into a room just across the hall, he found the kitchen right away. It was fairly large, with a black tiled floor, a variety of obviously muggle cooking appliances and smooth tiled red and caramel countertops. Rooting through the icebox, he found some ham, cheese, and bread. He made a sandwich and, taking deliberately slow bites, seated himself at the island in the center of the kitchen.

Viktor seemed to materialize next to him and said, "Done. I vill be off to bed now, I think. Continent-crossing Apparation is very taxing."

Harry nodded. "I think I'm going to turn in, too. It's been a long day." He finished his sandwich and cleaned up, then followed Viktor into the back, where he guessed his room was. Yawning, he allowed himself to be steered into the guest bedroom and over to the bed.

"'Night, Viktor," he muttered as he flopped unceremoniously onto the bed.

"Good night, Harry," the reply came, so softly he wondered if he'd imagined it.

Viktor left Harry in his room and proceeded across the hall to his own. Stripping down to his boxers, he climbed into bed and pulled the covers around him. Gradually, his breathing slowed and evened out, and he fell into the abyss of slumber.

He was woken abruptly after what seemed like only minutes. Silence was thick in the air, and his brow creased as he wondered what had awoken him. Then came the soft, muffled groan and the muttering, followed by a slightly louder intake of breath and a whimper. Frowning, he stumbled out of bed and across the hall, into Harry's room. The dark-haired youth was splayed across his bed, the sheets twisted around him and half on the floor.

Oddly enough, he appeared to have had the energy to change before he'd collapsed onto the bed, and lay on the bed bare-chested and clothed in his pajama bottoms.

Another whimper from the youth urged him from his contemplation of the younger boy, and he hurried to his side. Awkwardly, he sat on the edge of the bed and shook him awake gently. "Harry. Harry, vake up." Those vibrant green eyes snapped open, and he was surprised to see them filled with unshed tears.

"Harry?" he asked, uncertain of what to say.

The dark-haired boy, staring intently at a point over Viktor's shoulder, answered, "Nightmare. Sorry."

Blinking, he answered, "Don't vorry about it. Are you alright?"

Harry nodded slowly, and he took that as his cue to go back to bed. He started to stand, but a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Don't go. Please?"

The uncertainty and nervousness in Harry's quiet request spurred him to come back. He quietly crawled into the bed and wrapped an arm around the younger boy's torso. "I'm not going anyvere," he promised softly, settling in for the night. Harry was asking him to stay and damn it this was probably the only chance he'd ever get, so he took it.

He was surprised when the younger boy snuggled up, pressing closer and resting his head on his chest. He bit his lip to hide the sharp intake of breath when bare skin met smooth, tanned flesh.

Harry lay still, reveling in the feeling of warmth and security. A curious tingling ran under his skin like an electrical current, and he sighed deeply, letting sleep take hold of him and pull him down into the depths of slumber.

The next morning Harry awoke to find the space in the bed beside him was empty. For a moment he wondered if he'd imagined it, but then he spied the indentation of where a body had lain.

The smell of something cooking brought him to his senses and he climbed out of bed, stretching languidly. Muscles rippled enticingly under taut, tanned hide as he leant over to rifle through his trunk for a pair of jeans. He tugged them on and, barefoot and shirtless, slipped into the kitchen. The delicious scent of bacon and pancakes roused him fully, and he poured himself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher in the icebox.

"'Morning," he said, voice muffled by the sweet liquid.

In a voice that was rapidly becoming very familiar, Viktor replied, "'You too. The bacon's almost done if you vant some."

"Thanks. So, what're you doing today?"

Shrugging, the almost-20-year-old answered, "Not sure. I haff Quidditch practice today, that vill take a few hours. Do you vant to come vith? Ve could use another person there, so ve can scrimmage vith full teams. Vulchanov retired after last season, and our only reserve Beater isn't nearly as good. Ve might be able to talk our manager into playing; Mikolav used to be a Beater for the Sliven Sparrows."

Harry, grinning, replied, "Sure. I haven't played in a while, though; that ugly cow of a Defense teacher I told you about, Umbridge, gave me a life ban from playing on my House team. She locked my broom up and everything." His expression was one of disgust when he spoke of the toad-faced Ministry official Hogwarts had been 'gifted' with last year.

Viktor, understanding Harry's frustration at being stuck on the ground, nodded and said, "Your skills von't matter; I just hope you're an OK Beater, because if not you're mincemeat."

The shorter boy shrugged a shoulder. "My old Quidditch captain, Oliver Wood, said I would've made a fair Beater if I wasn't so small. It's kind of hard to wail on one when you're as scrawny as I was; in my first year I was smaller than the rest of my classmates, and that's including the girls. It was actually kind of embarrassing, standing next to Ron and 'Mione and having to look up to talk to them."

Viktor smirked slightly, "I never had that problem," he said in a mock-superior tone.

Harry just raised an eyebrow archly and replied in his stuffiest voice, "I see."

Sharing amused looks, they polished off the rest of the breakfast Viktor had whipped up. To be fair, Harry cleaned up afterwards, and then they wandered into the living room.

After about an hour of making small talk, Viktor looked up at the clock and said, "Time to go. You'd better change; a close-fitting shirt vill do. Ve don't need robes just for practice, and I haff an extra pair of Quidditch breeches in my locker that you can vear." Harry nodded and retreated into his new room, dug through his clothes until he spied a tight black T-shirt, and changed hurriedly.

He met up with Viktor by the front door and the Bulgarian cast several spells before he stepped outside and locked the door. At Harry's questioning look, he explained, "To keep the fans and reporters avay. I vonce came home to find vone in my bed; I haff kept security spells up ever since."

Harry covered his snicker with a coughing fit, at least until Viktor continued, "Of course, vonce people find out you're staying here, too, they vill come flocking, and I'm not about to haff them breaking down my door to get at you." All traces of humor immediately vanished from the English boy's face.

"Not funny," he said tartly as Viktor grabbed hold of him and Apparated.

They materialized just outside a door, rather prudently labeled in big, easy to read letters that proclaimed: LOCKER ROOM. Viktor opened the door and led the way inside, nodding hellos to the other Quidditch players in the room. The women on the team had their own locker room, so it was only men he saw as Viktor practically dragged him over to a corner of the room, where Harry presumed his locker was.

Undoing the lock, he rifled through the mess inside until he found an extra pair of breeches. Tossing them to Harry, he said, "Get dressed; I vill take care of introductions."

Nodding, Harry traded his jeans for the breeches; they were a little long, since Viktor was several inches taller than he was, but overall they fit surprisingly well, hugging his muscular calves and toned thighs in a way that had even the straight men staring.

Viktor tore his gaze away from the lower half of a certain green-eyed 16-year-old's body and said, "Guys, this is Harry Potter. Harry this the pride of Bulgaria, the Vultures Quidditch team. Ivanova, Kaishoff, and Levik vill get to meet you later," he added to Harry.

Harry nodded to the team; the team nodded back. Most of them seemed nice enough, a few even offering him smiles or handshakes. Maybe he would enjoy this.

Viktor prodded his shoulder and gestured towards an average-height, stocky man with ash-brown hair. He had a strong chin and a demeanor that promised nothing but pain if you got on his bad side. Otherwise, he seemed nice enough.

"Harry, this is Anjay Volkov. He's the team captain. Don't get on his bad side; he's tough as nails. If he likes you, though, you can piss him off all you vant and he von't say a thing."

Harry smirked at the description; it sounded a lot like Mad-eye Moody. "Yeah? Well, let's hope he doesn't hate me, then. Keep your fingers crossed, because I don't have the best track record with making friends."

Viktor just said, "Believe votever you vant, Harry. I know for a fact that you haff lots of friends."

"Yeah? Name a few."

He turned away under the pretense of tying his bootlaces, and, judging from the flush and the slight glaze to Viktor's eyes as they drifted over his ass, he didn't look half-bad.

Clearing his throat, Viktor led Harry out through a door near the shower room, onto the pitch. Sunlight nearly blinded him as they went outside, pausing at the rack just inside the door jammed full of practice equipment. Selecting one of the Seeker's build brooms, Viktor picked out a hybrid for Harry. It was the latest version of the Firebolt, the Inferno, and while it was clearly a Beater's broom, it was built for Seeking as well.

Together they went out onto the pitch, brooms in hand. Viktor immediately mounted his broom, launching himself into the air with a grace most people could only wish for. It was a far cry from the duck-footed, round-shouldered, distinctly awkward gait he used on the ground. When he was flying, he was like a bird. The broom was an extension of his body.

Harry straddled his Inferno, rocketing into the sky at top speed. The familiar rush he felt when he was flying returned full-force, and his grin was that of someone without a care in the world.

He flew in lazy loops and circles, diving and swooping like a bird of prey closing in on its victim. Not so far away, Volkov was sitting astride his own broom, watching him fly. Ivan Levski, the voice of logic for the team, sat beside him, examining Harry's flying. He was obviously a natural, almost as much at home in the open air as Viktor Krum himself.

"He's an amazing flier, I vill give him that," Volkov said as he watched Harry go into a steep dive and pull up at the last second.

"Give him a couple years and he could be on Viktor's level," Levski agreed.

"Ve don't haff a couple of years, Ivan. You think he is good enough?"

"Yes. He's obviously a good flier, but can he hit a bludger? Vait and see before you ask him," Levski advised, though he was positive it wasn't necessary.

Volkov shrugged. "Very vell. I vill see if he's Beater material." Just like that, he was gone, presumably to fetch a Beater's bat and a Bludger. Meanwhile, a very relaxed Harry Potter was hanging upside down from his broom, using only his legs to guide the slim piece of wood.

His fragile state of relaxation was broken by the whoosh of air. There was a loud crack, and something came flying straight at him. Rolling over quickly, now upright on his Inferno, he ducked the Bludger and streaked sideways. It came at him again, obviously aimed right on target. He was reminder strongly of the Slytherin/Gryffindor match in his second year, when Dobby had cursed the Bludgers to chase after him the entire game.

Spinning around, he dove down and snatched a Beater's bat out of one of the player's hands. He returned to playing height just in time to feel the Bludger rocket by inches from his left ear. Performing an admittedly impressive barrel roll one-handed, he met the oncoming Bludger at approximately 50 feet up. He hauled off and hammered the animated black ball as hard as he could, jarring his forearm in the process. The Bludger soared across the pitch and smashed into the stands on the opposite side of the pitch.

Volkov blinked once, twice. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Who needs Chasers ven ve can get Potter to knock them all off their brooms?"

Levski, smirking, asked jokingly, "So he's on the team?"

The practice was longer than normal, but it had an air of high spirits to it that had everyone smiling and laughing with surprising levity. Towards the end they scrimmaged, the reserves against the starters. Nikolaus Mikolav, the team manager, was cajoled into playing Beater for the reserves, and, shockingly to everyone who hadn't seen his earlier performance, Harry was a Beater for the starting team. The starters always had the most talented players and the fact that Volkov chose Harry over Mikolav for the position of second Beater surprised almost everyone. Viktor and Ivan Levski took it in stride; Viktor because he'd known from the start that Harry was a Quidditch prodigy, and Levski because he'd seen Harry's flying, as well as Mikolav's, and seen that, while distinctly different, Harry was more comfortable on a broom.

The scrimmage was playful but intense, and by the time they were done everyone was nursing injuries, even the Seekers. After practice, Volkov beckoned Harry over and asked him the question he'd been waiting to throw at him for hours.

"Vill you play for us?"

"What?!"

"Vill you play for us? As a Beater? Viktor is of course our Seeker; you excel most in that position, but you have potential, Potter. Anyvone vith an eye for talent can see that. You murdered those Bludgers ven ve vere scrimmaging; you are already a better player than the reserve Beater. So, vill you?"

Harry blinked, then looked over his shoulder at Viktor. The reason was obvious in his eyes. _Do you want me to stick around or go? If things don't work, can you handle having me around so much?_

Slowly, Viktor nodded.

Harry turned around again, met Volkov's eye, and said, "I accept. So, do I get one of those classy red lockers? I hear that the London Lions have new ones. You have something better to offer?"

Smirking, Volkov led him over to the shower room and opened the door. Harry gaped for a moment, then collected himself and said faintly, "Ok, you got me. Nothing beats power showers."

Volkov just laughed and said, "I thought you might like them. Viktor is alvays going on about how vonderful they are." Harry snorted and said dryly, "I bet. The shower at his flat isn't nearly this nice."

Snickers behind him alerted him to the fact that the rest of the team had been listening in on the conversation. Viktor, blushing, snapped, "Oh get it out of your head, people! One vould think all ve do at practice is sit around and look at dirty magazines, vith the vay your imaginations jump to conclusions."

Volkov raised his eyebrow in amusement. "Vot are you talking about, Viktor? They are just laughing at the fact that even after nearly 5 years, you are still a sheep farmer's son at heart."

Everyone got a laugh out of the look on the tall Slavic man's face as he realized what Volkov was on about. Mock glaring at his teammates, he huffed loudly and stormed into the showers, slamming the door dramatically after him. Harry snickered behind his hand, and it caught. Soon the entire room was laughing and applauding jokingly.

"Encore!" Dimitrov, one of the starter Chasers, bellowed.

Viktor's only reply was to inch the door open and throw one of his wrist guards at the fair-haired Bulgarian. It hit him in the forehead, and everyone exploded with laughter again. Harry, using the wall for support, sides heaving, was right at home with the rest of the team. Even more surprising, the rest of the team was right at home with him, something that didn't happen a lot unless you were the kind of person it was hard not to get along with, or you were close to someone on the team, Harry of which was both.

After a long shower, Harry emerged from the bathroom, water running down his defined chest and wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. It had been three days since he'd joined the team, and he was already friends with almost the entire team. A couple of them, a slim blond woman, the reserve Seeker, who Viktor had called Taila Levik, and one of the reserve Chasers, Damek Volsha, were still rather lukewarm in regards to him, but Taila seemed nice enough, and Damek was neutral, probably feeling him out or something like that.

Running a hand through his eye-length raven locks, he padded down the carpeted hall to his room. On his way, he passed Viktor's room, where the dark-haired Bulgarian was trying to give his closet some semblance of order.

Rolling his eyes, (he wasn't the neatest person in the world, either, but at least he kept his room semi-organized) he slipped into his room and dressed himself in comfortable jeans and a crimson T-shirt. It was fast becoming one of his theme colors. He found that instead of clashing with the bright green of his eyes, the darker shades of red only enhanced them. He shuddered at the thought of wearing magenta, though.

Barefoot, he wandered out into the hall and closed his door. The kitchen was, surprisingly, rather clean. At least, it was for two teenagers living there alone, neither of which were particularly inclined to do housework.

Grabbing himself a quick lunch, he made a plate for Viktor as well and went back down the hall, balancing the plates, cutlery, and drinks precariously. He made it half way down the hall before he dropped a fork.

"Damn."

Leaning down awkwardly, he tried to pick it up, but his hands were full. Then it hit him. Carefully, he leaned over and picked it up with his teeth.

He walked slowly the rest of the way and gladly handed over the drinks when Viktor noticed his plight and came to help. With a sigh, he flopped down on Viktor's bed and started to shovel food into his mouth. He finished quickly and asked, "Are you going to eat that?" eyeing the piece of chicken on the other boy's plate. At Viktor's incredulous look, he said defensively, "I'm a growing boy!"

Viktor cast a pointed look at him, and the youth admitted defeat. Viktor was taller than he was, and undoubtedly he always would be. It was hard to match 6' 1" when you spend ten years sleeping in a cupboard and living off scraps.

The duo spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in Viktor's room, chatting and looking at the mountain of Quidditch magazines stacked haphazardly under his bed. Quidditch was a topic they touched on a lot, their mutual love of the sport ensuring that they never ran out of things to talk about.


	3. Chapter 3

August 11th rolled around, and practice that day was lighter, and more for the sake of appearing to practice than for actual practice. Harry wasn't sure why until after they'd landed and were heading into the locker rooms. Viktor was one of the first into the showers, probably so he could drag it out and not keep everyone waiting.

Harry, meanwhile, was still in the changing room; his clothes scattered on the floor and bench around him. At the moment he was searching for his left sock, which had been on the top of the pile when he'd left and was now mysteriously missing. Half-naked, with his shirt off and his Quidditch breeches not leaving much to the imagination, he overheard Levski and Dimitrov talking.

"Vot'd you get the birthday boy?" That was obviously Levski; he had a deeper voice.

"I vos thinking about getting him a pair of handcuffs and some vipped cream, but my vife vouldn't let me. She said it vos too suggestive; as if ve didn't know he vos pining for Potter a long time ago, eh? From vot I can tell, it's not exactly vone-sided, either."

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline upon that revelation. He hadn't actually thought Viktor might like him back; he guessed he'd never really thought about it. Studiously appearing as if he were distracted by his task, he listened on. It occurred to him after a moment that it was his enhanced hearing that was allowing him to listen in on this conversation; both of the Chasers were speaking quietly, and they were on the other side of the room, behind a row of lockers. They clearly didn't expect him to be capable of listening to this particular talk.

"Vell, they're both shy as hell, and I doubt either of them vill haff the guts to admit they like each other. Vot do you think ve should do about this? It vould make Viktor happy; he's too serious for one so young, growing up vithout a real childhood like he did. Rather a shame, but there's not a lot ve can do about it. Potter's been good for him, though; it's only been a couple veeks and he's already smiling and joking more than I've ever seen him vithout being in a drunken stupor. It's Viktor's birthday tomorrow, August 12th, I think. He'll be twenty; vot do you say to a little matchmaking?"

Dimitrov shrugged. "Vy not?"

As quietly as possible, Harry straightened up and slipped into the showers; he could find his sock later. It was Viktor's birthday tomorrow. What the hell was he supposed to get him?

Viktor was awoken by something tickling his face. He swatted at it and hit something fleshy and warm. He was shocked when it groaned in protest. Cracking an eyelid, he spied several strands of eye-length black hair falling in front of his face. And they weren't his.

Equally shocking was the identity of the person tickle-torturing him. Harry, grinning, was leaning over him, his face only inches away. "Get up, birthday boy." Viktor started to reply, then stopped, his dark eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"How did you know it vos my birthday?"

Harry smirked teasingly. "The voices in my head told me." He offered the older boy a hand up. "Come on, out of bed and into the kitchen. I made breakfast!"

Viktor blinked. "You can cook?"

"Of course I can cook! What'd you think I was doing the other day when I was making dinner?" Harry cocked an eyebrow, his tone playful but his face completely serious.

Sighing, he dragged the taller boy out of bed and ordered him to get a move on. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched languidly. "Votever you say, Harry dearest," he replied dryly, not noticing the slight widening of Harry's eyes before he masked his reaction. As Harry grabbed his arm and started to lead him out into the hall, he noticed that they were both shirtless and barefoot. Harry's current state of undress didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. He absently told himself that Harry was the age of consent, 16, and if anything were to happen it would be perfectly legal, but another part of himself whispered that Harry would turn him down, or even hate him for coming onto him like this.

He shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind when they entered the kitchen and he saw the veritable feast laid out for him. The bacon looked perfect, and those eggs were obviously expertly scrambled, and some of the food was Bulgarian, obviously well made. And they were his favorite dishes. He wondered when exactly Harry had learned to cook so well, blinking stupidly before saying, "Mm."

Harry understood the emotion behind that simple word and smiled. "I talked Volkov into helping me out with the food, and Levski managed to procure this from somewhere. Don't ask me, I didn't want to know and I still don't."

He produced a bottle of amber liquid from the icebox and handed it over. Viktor's jaw dropped comically.

"Averjesky?" he asked eyes glued to the label in awe. Even for a celebrity, procuring a bottle of the stuff was very difficult. He could only assume that Harry had pitched in to get it in time for his birthday.

Harry leaned over casually and closed his mouth with a Quidditch-callused hand, smirking. Viktor relished the gentle touch and could feel it even after Harry had pulled away to put the bottle back in the icebox. He seated himself at the table and served himself a bit of everything with glee. He hadn't had a banquet like this since he'd stopped living with his mother last year, after he'd finished school.

Breakfast was a prolonged affair, and afterward Harry set the dishes to washing themselves and the pair got dressed, Harry in jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Viktor in laced trousers and a black T-shirt.

Viktor Apparated them out to the Vultures pitch for practice, and was greeted with the sight of the entire team, reserves included, waiting for them.

Grinning, Harry stepped back to watch as the team crowded around their Seeker, rallying to present him with their gifts. A new watch, a set of anti-slip leather Quidditch gloves, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and a pair of handcuffs later (the last courtesy of Dimitrov, despite his wife's wishes) Viktor was smiling and, on a rare impulse, raised his arms in a group hug. Everyone, including Harry got in on the action. For some reason Harry found himself right at the middle of the pack, practically in Viktor's arms, even though he was sure he'd been on the outskirts to begin with. With a mental shrug, he leaned into that heartfelt embrace and wrapped an arm around the 20-year-old.

Operation Get-Harry-And-Viktor-Together had been launched, and in the eyes of their teammates, it was going to be a success.

It had been a week since Viktor's impromptu birthday bash at the pitch, when everyone, even Harry, had imbibed at least a little alcohol. It wouldn't have happened in public, but seeing as the Vultures pitch had nearly as many protection spells on it as Hogwarts and was only reachable if you were a member of the team or were traveling with one, they decided that he was old enough to drink responsibly. Besides that no one was about to tell on them for giving him a few shots of Firewhisky, and Harry wasn't stupid enough to tell anyone that they'd let him drink alcohol, even if he _was _already 16.

Harry was sprawled on the couch in the living room, with Viktor lying on the floor by the fireplace, drinking a glass of what smelled like Averjesky. He'd offered Harry a glass as well, but Harry wasn't much of a drinker, even if he could drink a fair few people under the table. Instead he'd settled for sneaking sips from Viktor's glass when he wasn't looking, or he was looking and was too busy staring at Harry's ass to pay attention to his glass and how much less there was in it, even though he hadn't drunk any.

It was midway through August and Harry was starting to wonder if he should even go back to school. Sure, NEWTs would look good on a resume, but he was the fucking Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Stalked-By-A-Psychotic-Madmad and he seriously doubted he would need them if he didn't die.

True, he did have a few friends there, but he'd have to see Ron and Hermione every day and of course Snape and Dumbledore, even though he wasn't taking Potions anymore. Snape had always gone out of his way to torture Harry, and what's to say he wouldn't continue to do so? A little thing like his godfather possibly being tortured at that very moment hadn't seemingly been enough to force him to act like real, decent human being for once in his life. And, of course, there was the stickler: Viktor wouldn't be there. If he stayed in Bulgaria and continued to train with the team and practice his magic on his own or with some help, he would get to see the dark-haired Adonis every day, as well as being around people that treated him like a normal person. They weren't star-struck by him, being celebrities themselves.

Then, there were the pros of the situation as well. He did have a few friends there, and it would be kind of nice to see them again. It would give him a chance to train for his showdown with Voldemort, and he did happen to like the fact that they had more than a few questionable books in the library that might have valuable information. Knowledge was power, and he was going to need a lot of it if he was going to stay out of Dumbledore's manipulations and still be capable of fighting Voldemort.

He could think of a few people that he thought of as friends, even if he didn't know them as well as he did his former best friends. Neville, Luna, possibly Seamus and Dean, and a smattering of people from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were all on his good side at the moment. Surprisingly, so was Blaise Zabini. Quiet, dark-haired, and politically neutral, he was a Slytherin in Harry's year, though he didn't seem to have the same prejudices that the other Slytherins exhibited, namely Malfoy and Parkinson. He'd even nodded or said hi to him on occasion.

Finally, after weighing the pros and cons in his mind, he decided to go back to Hogwarts. If things got too bad, he didn't have to stay; some might call that running away, but he called it self-preservation. His more Slytherin mindset was talking there, he figured. Your typical Gryffindor didn't think much of tactical retreat.

It had been raining for three days. The duo had spent quite a bit of time at the pitch, in the weight room and the indoor Quidditch stadium that they used during bad weather.

Harry was now much fitter than previously; he'd always been a fast runner, with a lot of stamina, but spending so much time locked up or in classes had lost some of that. By now, he'd gained that back and more. His build, while not bulging with muscle, was considerably more defined, with sleek muscles and a lean but powerful build. He had more endurance now, and his reflexes were as fast as a snake's. He also appeared to pack quite a punch. One of his Bludgers had knocked the reserve Chaser Damek Volsha off his broom and into one of the goal posts; he'd broken his wrist and gained an interesting bruise on the side of his left shoulder in the shape of a Bludger.

He'd felt kind of bad about it at first, but then something occurred to him. Things would be much worse in war, and Voldemort didn't apologize after he lopped someone's head off. He couldn't afford to beat himself up over every single person he hurt. If he did he doubted he'd make it through the war. That would be the ultimate irony- to force him into this fight, unprepared, and if he died saving the world, then who would care. Oh, he knew a few people who would, but he was a weapon to most of the Wizarding population- he was supposed to kill Voldemort, and to hell with him if he didn't want to get himself killed to do it.

Shaking off his dark thoughts, he set down the 100-pound weight set and moved up to the 120 set. He was bench-pressing almost 200 pounds by now and was rather pleased with his progress. Weight lifting helped to relax him; it wasn't as good as flying or driving, but it was physical, and the concentration it required kept his mind from wandering to unpleasant territory.

August 19 Burrow 

Ronald Bilius Weasley was not in a good mood. Hermione's parents had persuaded her to go home for the remainder of the summer, and Ginny kept to herself more and more now. She spent a lot of time at her friend's houses or with her current boyfriend, Dean Thomas.

He was even starting to reconsider trying to cut his ties with Harry. His family would be safer with Harry out of their life, and he wouldn't have to live in his best mate's shadow, but it was downright boring without the drama that seemed to follow him around. Running a large hand through his neat ginger hair, he stared out the window at the large field behind the Burrow, where they played Quidditch. That was something else that had been a positive to having Harry around; he had someone good at the sport to mess around with, besides Ginny. There was also the downside that everyone considered him inferior to Harry because he was the youngest fucking Seeker in a century. Who cared? He got lucky, that was all.

Angrily, he threw his pillow at the wall. It hit the door and exploded in a shower of feathers. Glaring at the offending fluffy white particles littering his floor, he flopped back on his bed with a frustrated groan.

Damn Harry Potter and his uncanny ability to make the simplest of decisions so hard.

"Why do you always have to make everything so bloody hard?" he asked into the silence.

August 19, Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix 

Remus put the kettle on the stove and collapsed into a chair at the end of the table. Rubbing his face with his hands, he rested his elbows on the tabletop and waited for the tea to come to a boil. He was alone in the house, if you didn't count any potentially dangerous household pests lurking in dark corners or small, enclosed spaces.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the tabletop, remembering. This was Sirius's house, damn it. Dumbledore had no right to clear out his room to make space for other Order members to stay in. It wasn't right, he'd only just died! The least he could have done was allow Harry and himself to see it one last time.

That wasn't how the Order's leader worked, though. His frame of mind was that people died in war, and those lost shouldn't be mourned. They'd died for a cause, a good cause, and they didn't need people breaking down over the loss of their friend/family/lover.

Well, Dumbledore wasn't right all the time, even if some people were convinced that was true.

He was angry with himself, with the injustice of the world, with Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Bellatrix. They'd taken his last friend from him, and stolen away his chance to mourn the loss of him. Sirius and James dead, Peter might as well have been. He truly was the last marauder.

Anger got the better of him, again, and he slammed his fist on the table. His lycanthropy-enhanced strength sent thin cracks spidering across the surface.

Tears spilled down his face, and he let them flow freely. He didn't care what everyone thought of him. That was the position he was found in hours later, head down and his arms folded, tear tracks on his face, when Severus Snape and Kingsley Shacklebolt returned from their latest Order mission.

August 20, Sofia 

Rain hammered against the windows mercilessly, daunting and depressing in its darkness and gloom. The prospect of going out in that downpour wasn't a happy one, and Harry, armed with an advanced translation charm and some money, wasn't looking forward to it. Tugging on his leather jacket, he had Viktor cast an impervious charm on him before venturing out into the storm. He cast a longing look at the couch, where Viktor was sprawled, watching TV.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked.

The dark-haired man raised a dark eyebrow, "No, go ahead. You haff been restless lately, you should go and haff fun, like you're supposed to. I vould go vith you, but I'm still nursing a bruised ego." He rolled onto his back and lifted up his shirt, displaying the impressive bruise on his stomach. He winced when the fabric of his shirt touched the Bludger-shaped mark. "Unless you vould like to stay and help me count the ceiling tiles?"

Grimacing, he nodded. "Point taken."

Sighing, he pulled his jacket tight around himself and ventured out into the storm. Drops of rain pelted him, stinging and freezing. Shivering, he sprinted down the street to the nearest store, and ducked inside. He looked around, blinked. Apparently he'd stumbled upon a tattoo parlor. Shrugging, he walked over the wall, where some tattoo samples were tacked up for customers to look at. He looked them over, and was soon enthralled by the lifelike images and rich colors of the pictures on display. None of them struck his fancy, though, until he was almost at the end of the wall.

He walked up to the counter and asked the man behind the till, "Um, can I get a tattoo?" He was surprised when his words came out in Bulgarian instead of English.

"Sure," the man replied, "As long as you're at least sixteen and I won't get into trouble for giving you one."

Harry answered, "Then we don't have a problem. My…guardian…won't care. He might like it, actually." The man nodded and stuck out a hand.

"The name's Alec Dovka. You are?"

"Harry."

"Ah. Well, do you have anything in mind?"

"Erm, actually, I saw one that I liked, but could you change it a bit?"

Alec looked thoughtful, then said, "As long as it doesn't change the image a lot; then I'd have to design a new one."

"OK, then, could you do that one," he pointed out the image he wanted, "and ink it across my back, instead of my arm, as well? I'd like a couple of the images to be done in different colors, though, if its not too much trouble."

"I think I can do that. Have a seat, and I'll see what you want done."

Alec led him over to a table and instructed him to lie down on his stomach. The sixteen-year-old did as instructed, and the tattoo artist set to work. After hours of steady work, during which Harry gritted his teeth and kept silent, when he wasn't talking, Alec stepped back and proclaimed, "Done!"

Sitting up gingerly, he stood and stepped up to the floor-length mirror Alec presented him with. Turning his back, he examined the image inked across his entire back with a critical eye.

It was a beautifully etched image of a 5-point star, with an image enclosed in each point. A ghostly pale stag, head held proudly to display its impressive antlers. A fragile fiery red lily perfectly shaped. A monstrous black grim, tongue lolling, with Sirius, the Dog Star, in the background. A muscular werewolf, baring its teeth in a feral snarl, though it's amber eyes were compassionate and hopeful. Last, but not least, two black falcons, one with emerald eyes and one with dark brown, soaring side by side.

It was a gorgeous tattoo, he admitted as he pulled his shirt back on.

He paid, and left a handsome tip for the friendly Bulgarian. Out in the street again, he hugged his jacket closer and winced when it rubbed the tender skin on his back. It would be a while before the skin toughened up again, and he viewed it as the downside to doing such a thing.

The next stop was to a small restaurant for a quick lunch before he continued. The rain had slowed to drizzle by now, but the biting wind more than made up for that.

"Damn," he muttered, scanning the street for somewhere to take shelter.

A small shop, tucked away in a corner of the street, caught his eye. Or rather, the items in the shop window did. Several rows of expensive jewelry were on display, among them a glittering silver chain with a 5-pointed star dangling from it. In the center was a real emerald, with a silver rune engraved into the precious gem. It was a strange symbol, and at the same time he felt it oddly suiting.

He slipped inside, registered the glass cases full of jewelry, and strolled over to the watch display. His last one had stopped working after the second task of the TriWizard Tournament, and he'd never gotten around to replacing it. Now, with more money in his pocket than he could ever remember having, or, for that matter, seeing, he felt he was justified in indulging himself a little.

He examined several watches before he found the one he wanted. Streamlined, silver, and decked out with countless intriguing features, it had an impressive price tag, but he felt it was worth it. Taking it from its place, he continued his examination of the shop's contents.

He ended up buying the watch, the 5-point star necklace, and a thin, supple black leather wristband that screamed class and style.

He paid quickly after being attacked with a barrage of chatter from the clerk, and exited the shop, back into the street. He wandered the streets for a couple more hours, browsing mostly and occasionally buying something he liked or thought he might need.

By 6 o'clock, the rain had stopped entirely and the streets were a mess. He returned to the flat somewhat reluctantly, and had to strip off his jeans and shoes before Viktor would let him inside, drenched as he was.

"Did you haff any trouble?" Viktor asked once Harry had dressed again and they were in the living room with two glasses of Averjesky.

"Nope. The weather wasn't the greatest, but the food's good around here. I went shopping," he admitted. "I found a few nice things, and I doubt you would have disagreed, even if some of them were a bit highly priced."

Viktor nodded and surveyed him. He noted that Harry was being careful not to lean back.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern tingeing his voice.

The raven-haired youth nodded. "Fine. I'm a little tender, though. You see, I found this really nice tattoo shop, and well, they had a really good tattoo there, so I thought, 'Hey, what the hell, why not?' and this is the result…"

He tugged his shirt off, his muscles flexing provocatively. Twisting around, he showed his upper torso to the Slav. A slight intake of breath and a soft comment were his only reply.

"Perfect."


	4. Chapter 4

"Ron! Come down here!" Mrs. Weasley's shout was heard throughout the house.

"Coming!" he bellowed back, slamming the lid of his trunk down and dumping his books unceremoniously on the bed before darting out into the hallway. His half-unpacked trunk was left in his room, the one he'd shared with Harry the summer before. Harry. His fists clenched at the thought of him. Harry was the reason everything had gone wrong in his life.

It had been a mistake to sit in his compartment in first year. If he hadn't, then he and his family wouldn't have gotten tangled up in this and they wouldn't be on Voldemort's hit list because they were close to Harry. He knew Hermione had her own reasons for wanting to sever ties with Harry, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that her parents were muggles, and if they were attacked there was nothing they could do to fight back. He also suspected that she was tired of being 'just' Harry's best friend, like him. They were always in the shadow of the Boy-Who-Lived, even if they were unique.

He would never admit it, but deep down he knew Harry hadn't asked for this to happen, that it wasn't his fault, and he had no control over what was happening. Look at Sirius though. He'd gone to the Department of Mysteries to save Harry, who'd decided to play hero and 'rescue' his 'captured' godfather, and been killed as a result. That was all Harry, he told himself.

Hermione had warned him to be careful, and he hadn't listened to her. Everyone who knew Hermione knew she was almost always right and how should then have been any different? No, Harry had paid her warning no mind, and Sirius had paid the ultimate price for loving his godson.

Shaking off his dark thoughts, he trooped down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the Order was assembled around the kitchen table, waiting for him. His step unconsciously became more pronounced as he strode over to the only empty seat, not far from the door.

Eyes followed him as he swaggered over to his chair, and continued to look upon him when he'd seated himself. Even the Order members who'd never met him could guess who he was, or at least whom he was related to. His distinct flaming red Weasley hair and freckles were a dead give-away.

Snape watched him saunter over with a sneer on his face, astounded by the show of arrogance from someone so, well, average. Ron had never been exceptional in any of his classes, wasn't graced with the greatest looks, and certainly wasn't filthy rich and spoiled silly. The only things he seemed to excel at were chess and strategy. His flying was acceptable, but it was nothing compared to Potter's.

He really had nothing significant to be arrogant about.

Molly Weasley watched her youngest son with unmistakable pride in her eyes. He might be average, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. The task he was about to be asked to carry out also added a bit of shine to her gaze. Friendly and generous she might be, but no one ever said she was a saint, or free of prejudices and expectations.

…

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. Wonderful timing, I must say. I was just about to arrange for a conversation with you." Dumbledore offered his withered hand, and Ron shook it.

"Sir, I was wondering, this wouldn't have something to do with Harry, would it?" he asked, already knowing exactly what the Headmaster would say.

"As a matter of fact, it would. I would imagine you've been in contact with him?" The redhead nodded, hoping that this wasn't about him breaking things off with Harry. He hadn't told anyone yet, and he hoped he wouldn't have to until he had Hermione to back him up.

"I have, but he didn't reply. Why?"

The wizened old man continued conversationally, "Well, Mr. Weasley, I and several other Order members have agreed it would be better if you were to keep an eye on him and relay anything significant you learn, if you would be willing? We are going to be contacting Ms. Granger with the same offer, if you'd like to talk it over first?"

Mind made up, he replied, "That won't be necessary, sir. I'll do it. You want me to spy on him, is that what you're getting at?"

Indecision warred on the old wizard's face as he struggled to come up with a subtle way of saying yes. "In essence, yes. Think of it as looking out for his best interests, if you will. It's not going to hurt him if you're doing it for his own good."

Ron smirked. "I see. Well, I'll do it, if that's what you wanted to talk about. Am I done here, then?"

Looking relieved, Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Weasley. It is greatly appreciated. Now, if you would be so kind as to relay our request to Ms. Granger for us?" Ron recognized the roundabout way of telling him to leave, and went along with it.

"Of course, Professor. I'll be going, then."

He stood and left, his swagger greatly increased. He was almost strutting. In his corner of the table, tucked away not far from Dumbledore, Snape sneered in disgust. Weasley was far too full of himself. That would have to be remedied, preferably in front of a large audience.

…

Harry woke slowly, stretching. It was only when his hand touched smooth, soft flesh that he registered that he wasn't in his bed. Snatching his hand away, blushing crimson, he rolled off the couch, out of Viktor's arms. The Slavic man was still asleep, unaware of the wandering hands that had bumped into his lower stomach, near a region that few had ventured to before.

Hurriedly, he went to his room and got dressed. Slipping into the bathroom, he showered quickly and was on his way to his room when Viktor appeared, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed.

"Are you ready to go to practice?"

"No."

Viktor walked by him, into the bathroom, and promptly slipped in a puddle of water on the floor, falling on his bum rather harder than was good for him. "Argg!"

Sheepishly, he muttered, "Sorry, Viktor."

The ebony-haired Bulgarian scowled at him. "Right. Like you really mean that." He stood gingerly, wincing, and hobbled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

…

Practice later that morning was rushed, and they didn't have a chance to shower before Volkov herded the team, including the trio of women, into the main locker room and forced them to make themselves comfortable. For Harry that meant on the floor leaning against Viktor's legs, head leaned back and eyes closed. He wasn't sure if it was normal to be so physical with a friend- after all, Ron had never been like this, constantly touching him, bumping shoulders, slapping him on the back, running fingers through his hair in an oddly soothing gesture. It reminded him of the way people were always ruffling his hair. Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Remus, they were all guilty of it.

Yawning, he stretched out, shedding his practice robes and top, leaving him sweat-lathered and bare-chested, leaning against the young Slav's legs casually.

Kaishoff had to blink a couple times to get that image out of her head, reminding herself that she had a boyfriend already, and that Harry was quite obviously playing at least part-time for the home team, figuratively speaking.

"He's quite the sight, isn't he?" Ivanova murmured from her left.

"Too bad he's taken," she added slyly, shooting a significant look at Viktor, who sat slumped against the cool metal of the lockers, idly playing with the raven-headed Brit's hair.

Kaishoff shrugged. "He's not half bad, but I agree. Those two haff been glued to each other since Harry got here. I vould haff to be blind to miss that, especially after so long." She gestured subtly at the pair, and Ivanova nodded, then turned away, satisfied, to chat with Zograf.

She shot one last look at the two black-haired athletes, and smiled. It wouldn't be long now; those two were positively joined at the hip.

Volkov loudly asking for silence interrupted her in her musings on the progress of operation Get-Harry-And-Viktor-Together, and she turned her attention to him. The room quieted, and he continued, "Vell, team, ve haff our first match next veek; Harry vill only be here for two before he goes back to school and that damned Ministry law keeps him from attending all the practices. Are ve ready?"

"Yes," the team replied.

"I can't here you…" he said.

"Yes!" they bellowed.

"Vot are you, a bunch of mimes?"

"YES!" they roared, and Volkov blinked at the deafening noise.

"I think ve are ready."

Harry sat on the floor, shirtless and barefoot, leaning against his bedpost. He was examining himself in the mirror, for the first time since he'd arrived here in Bulgaria, and was shocked by the change in himself.

His hair had grown out a bit more, falling in his eyes like a glossy black curtain. His eyes were darker; worldlier than he remembered, yet at the same time reflected a playfulness and confidence he couldn't recall ever being there before. His shoulders had broadened a bit more, and he'd filled out more, coaxed into the impressive new form by three square meals a day and the brutal physical training he'd undergone with the team. The next Quidditch practice after he'd gotten the tattoo on his back, Levski had commented on it, and Taila Levik, surprisingly, had said it looked good on him.

The only thing he could think to say was 'thanks'.

Absently, he willed his wings into existence. He'd only called on them three times since arriving here, uncertain how Viktor would react to seeing them. He'd almost asked him about them numerous times, but was afraid that he didn't want to hear the answer, if there even was one.

Standing, he stood before the full-length mirror and raised his wings, entranced by the rainbow of colors that shimmered across his wings when the lamplight caught them. Pulling them closer around himself, he took the tip of one in his hands and ran the silky feathers through his fingers in wonderment.

Stretching his wings, he pumped them cautiously, extremely aware of the flexing motions his extremely well developed shoulder muscles made as they were put to use. A blast of air tore through the room, sweeping papers off his bedside table and rustling the pages of the textbooks he'd left out. The curtains on his window swayed, and a shaft of light caught his eye, blinding in its intensity.

Holding up a hand to block the bright light, he took a step back, both to eliminate any chances of a muggle seeing his unnatural appendages and to get himself out of the light's path.

A knock sounded on the door behind him, and he whipped around, reaching instinctively for his wand. The door opened, and a familiar head of short dark hair appeared, eyeing his wings with an unintelligible look in his eyes.

"I vos going to see if you vanted anything to eat, but I can…come back later, if you vant." He held up a plate, shooting a look at Harry's bare torso.

"No, that's OK."

He took the plate, opened the door, and let the 20-year-old in. Viktor leaned against the doorframe, watching him. Seating himself on his bed and leaning back against the headboard, he asked suddenly, "Do they bother you? The wings?"

Viktor blinked then shook his head slowly.

"No. I am not accustomed to seeing them, though, forgive me if I'm staring."

"OK. I was just wondering," he said, staring at the wall a couple feet to Viktor's left. He set the plate aside, and patted the bed beside him. "Sit?" he questioned softly, eyes refusing to meet the other's gaze.

"Alright."

Viktor sat beside him, perhaps a bit closer than was normal between friends. His arm brushed Harry's stomach, and both were suddenly very aware of the youth's state of undress. Clearing his throat, Viktor raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Er…" Harry trailed off, unsure where to start. He twisted his fingers in the blanket, refusing to meet the Bulgarian's gaze and let his true feelings be known.

"Viktor…do you feel anything? For me?" he added belatedly, realizing the wide spectrum of answers available for that question. Eyes darkening, the elder of the two nodded, slowly.

"Yes."

"Er…good, because, well, I think- I think I feel something for you, too." He finally looked up and met Viktor's intent gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. Those gorgeous eyes were looking at him with lust, with longing, with desire.

Wordlessly, Viktor leaned in; closer than both remembered ever being, and paused, only inches away from the younger man's face.

"Are you sure?"

"Hell yes," was the growled reply.

Their lips met slowly, tantalizingly. Harry stopped breathing, and the world melted away. The only things were that perfect body, those amazing hands, those tempting lips. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he deepened the kiss, running his tongue along the older man's lower lip.

Those amazingly soft lips parted, and he slipped his tongue inside, mapping every niche and crevice in his mouth. A hand snaked into his hair, fingers twining in his longish locks. Viktor drew away, and he growled, deep in his throat, eyes clouded with desire and pent-up emotion.

With torturous slowness, those lips shifted from his own to his jaw, trailing kisses across and down his neck, to his ear. He stopped there to nip and suckle on the ear lobe a moment before working his way back to his mouth, then down to nip lightly at his neck, leaving marks everywhere he went.

"Mmm…" he groaned, then paused, gasping, to plant a long, slow kiss on his lips.

They remained that way for a long time, cautiously mapping each other out and fulfilling the desires that had burned in their minds for the better part of a year and a half.

So they were when they fell asleep hours later, and remained all night, with Harry's wings wrapped protectively around the two young lovers.

…

On Tory Island, a dark, imposing castle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the storm-tossed Atlantic Ocean. Only the top two floors were lit, though the occasional flare of floo travel on the first floor was visible every so often.

In his dank, waterlogged lair, Lord Voldemort was having a bad day. His Death Eaters were useless, his inner circle was incompetent, and the dementors were giving him a headache. At least, he assumed it was the dementors, though he was puzzled as to why it was only now affecting him.

Perched on his skeletal throne in the converted Ballroom, he watched his Death Eater guards harass Wormtail with a twisted sense of satisfaction. A spike of agony in his head caught his attention, and a hand flew to his forehead. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back on his makeshift throne and willed the pain to go away. It did, but returned only moments later, burning under his skin. Sucking in an agonized breath, he snarled as images assaulted his mind.

A dark-haired teenager entwined with another, taller boy, their lips pressed together in a deep, slow kiss. A wandering hand, a nip to the ear, a trail of kisses across a strong jaw. A gasp of pleasure, a slow, unsteady intake of breath. The edge of a dark, colossal wing as it enveloped the pair in a safe haven of feathers and flesh. A pair of vibrant emerald eyes sliding shut, a set of serious dark brown orbs fluttering sleepily.

Potter.

He slumped in his ugly, misshapen throne, the pain too great, engulfing him as he fell into the abyss of unconsciousness. His guards, noticing the sudden quiet and the limpness of their Lord's serpentine body, rushed to his aide. Glaring hatefully after them, the sniveling, traitorous rat that was Peter Pettigrew scurried away into the shadows of the castle's narrow corridors.

…

Volkov slammed a Bludger at the target, smirking with satisfaction when it slammed into it with a thundering crash. "Seventy-eight!" he crowed triumphantly, brandishing his Beater's bat proudly. Harry, snorting, took up his position in front of the target as well, hefting his bat in his left hand, unusual considering he was right-handed.

Thump. Smash. Crunch.

"Eighty-one!"

Volkov glared half-heartedly; secretly he was satisfied to see Harry so enthusiastic about the sport. Levski, hovering nearby, smirked and elbowed him in the ribs. "Vatch out, Anjay, or Potter vill be beating you out of the first Beater position. He's bloody brilliant."

Rolling his eyes, Volkov replied, "He's been beating me since the veek he joined the team, Ivan. Potter's got moxie- I vouldn't get on his bad side if he's not tied down, in a coma, or completely hammered."

Ivan nodded his silent agreement. "I vill second that."

Volkov just shook his head and gripped his Beater's bat, preparing to take his turn with the targets again. Viktor, who was practicing his barrel roll, split his attention long enough to see Harry's ninety-three hit, and whistled.

Harry was going to be a force to be reckoned with once the team was done with him. What better battle training was there than Quidditch practice?

…

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was a patient man, and an expert tactician. One thing he lacked, however, was the ability to stay cool when everything was spiraling out of control. His Gryffindor Golden Boy had vanished; there was no sign of him at Privet Drive, and it looked as if he'd been gone for a while.

He'd sent Tonks, Moody, and Mr. Weasley to question the Dursleys about Harry's absence, but he wasn't holding out much hope that they'd know where to find him. Sighing, he reached out a withered hand to pick up a small, palm-sized golden orb. Gryffindor scarlet smoke swirled inside it, forming different shapes and images every couple seconds.

A scrying orb if ever there was one, and it was set to Harry James Potter.

Pressing his palm flat against the cool glass-like surface, he muttered the aforementioned name and looked directly into the smoky interior of the orb.

"Legilimens," he murmured.

The smoke seemed to shift anxiously for a moment, undecided, before it swirled and vanished abruptly, bringing to the surface a single image. It depicted a raven-haired, emerald-eyed youth, lying on a soft crimson material that he assumed was a bed spread or a blanket. The edge of something smooth, glossy, and black edged into the image, contrasting with the smooth, tanned skin of his bare torso. Pushing aside his curiosity at the unknown, he concentrated instead on what was clearly visible behind him. A well defined, athletic upper body was sprawled beside him, face buried in the youth's chest, though it was clear that he was the elder of the two. Only a head of short ebony hair and the edge of the man's face was visible, but he could see that the two were close, intimate even.

Worried, and frustrated by the fact that the only way he could find of discerning Harry's location didn't offer any useful information as to where he was, the Headmaster set the orb back on its ornate stand and sat back in his overstuffed chair.

Fawkes, eyeing his master, warbled a few soothing notes in the hopes of alleviating the wizened old man's dark mood. He was rewarded with a tired half-smile and a few absent-minded words.

"Thank you, Fawkes."

…

The rain lashed against the windows, a steady rhythm against the glass. It was storming again, though the two dark-haired young men neither noticed nor cared. Emerald eyes opened slowly and blinked sleepily, then rose to meet the steady dark brown gaze of the other.

"'Morning, Viktor," he murmured, stretching languidly.

"'Morning," was the reply. He smiled lazily at the English youth, and relaxed into the warmth of the other man's arms.

"How long have you been up?" Harry asked, noticing his alertness and the amusement in the other man's eyes. Viktor half-smiled and answered.

"A vhile. You vere sleeping; I didn't vant to vake you."

"Ah." His stomach growled; interrupting anything that might have happened otherwise. "I'm starving. I don't suppose you know how to make blueberry pancakes?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

Viktor shrugged. "I can try, if you vant." He got to his feet, disentangling himself from Harry, though his hand lingered on the other's thigh, where he'd set it to help himself up. As he stood and stretched, he noticed that he was half-naked, something he didn't remember being when he'd appeared in Harry's room the previous evening. Shrugging, he grabbed his abandoned shirt off the floor by the bed and walked out, draping it over his shoulder instead of putting it on. He tossed it into his room on his way down the hall.

He started to make breakfast, and was mixing batter for the pancakes when a pair of Quidditch-toned arms encircled his waist from behind.

"Mm," Harry purred, deep in his throat. "Looks good."

Viktor, smirking, twisted around until he was facing the younger man, whose arms were still wrapped loosely around him. With far more confidence than the night before, he tilted his head down (damn that pesky height difference) and planted a chaste kiss on the youth's lips.

What started as an innocent good morning kiss turned into a full-out snogging session, and it was to them leaning against the counter, hands roaming and mouths open, that Volkov apparated into the living room, fully clothed and with a scrap of parchment clutched in his hand.

…

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter- it took a little urging to get this finished. I was originally going to end it sooner, but I myself enjoy long chapters and I just _had _to add in the Harry/Viktor at the end.**

**Merry Christmas to everyone, by the way!**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! I won't be putting my replies here, though- I find it really annoying when half the page is replies to reviews, and I don't want to subject my readers to endless lines of 'thank you', 'good idea' and 'damn, why didn't I think of that?' Glad to see some Harry/Viktor fans out there, btw. It's surprising how few supporters it seems to have, considering._**

Harry woke slowly, stubbornly refusing to be tempted into consciousness by the deep, accented baritone that he recognized immediately as Viktor's voice. "Harry, vake up. It is time to get ready for the match. Plovdiv von't be playing themselves." The lean but solid form wriggled in his arms, and then the now-familiar warmth vanished.

"Damn it, five more minutes."

The covers were pulled back abruptly, and the freezing air hit his unmentionables, forcing him to scramble upright, struggling with the thin sheets that had somehow tangled around his lower body, cocooning him inside of them. His eye-length raven hair was wild, framing his face like a dark halo, and his calves and thighs were toned and strong from gripping a broomstick. Quidditch did wonders for the body; Viktor mused as he watched the almost naked form of the younger man climb awkwardly out of Harry's bed.

"I'm up," he groaned, getting to his feet and stumbling over to the wardrobe. After a long moment of staring blankly at the clothing items within, he asked, "Any suggestions?"

Smirking, Viktor walked up behind him, still dressed in nothing but his boxers, and picked out a pair of tight lace-front black trousers and a flattering crimson button-up shirt, and passed them on.

"Dressing up for the game is, how do you say it, expected, of the players. Makes it easier to dress for the victory party aftervard, as vell, I am thinking, no?" he said, instructing the raven-headed youth to try them on. Harry complied, and Viktor examined his attire critically for a moment before nodding his ascent.

"Good. Now go eat, I vill go find something to vear."

Viktor vanished into the hallway, leaving his clothes from the previous night forgotten on the floor.

Harry, who was beginning to feel the onslaught of a miniature panic attack coming on, obeyed silently, face pale. If he'd thought his first Quidditch match in his first year was nerve-wracking, that was nothing compared to this. His hands shook slightly as he prepared a bowl of cereal for breakfast, praying silently that it wouldn't make a second appearance later on.

Viktor appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, garbed in form-fitting black trousers and a charcoal grey shirt with crimson piping. Noticing Harry's nervousness, he walked over and leaned casually against the back of the chair he was in, placing his hands on his shoulders. It wasn't until he started to massage the tense muscles under his strong fingers that Harry finally relaxed, slumping in his chair and breathing deeply through his mouth.

He melted into a puddle of doe-eyed goo under the Bulgarian's tender ministrations, and Viktor found after a bit that in addition to calming Harry's frayed nerves, he himself was far calmer than was usual before a match. Putting it down to Harry being a good distraction from his normal pre-game jitters, he ate a quick breakfast before Apparating them to the pitch where they'd be playing.

…

Viktor ducked a Bludger, sliding half off his broom in one of the Seeker's lesser known maneuvers. Breathing a sigh of relief when it tore by inches from his face and continued on in search of something else to pummel, he righted himself and flew off again in search of the Snitch.

Absently, he looked over at the other end of the pitch and noted that Harry was doing very well, especially since he'd been so nervous before the game. That had evaporated the instant his feet had left the ground, though, leaving in its place a confidant, at ease young man with precision aim.

He looked over at the stands and saw, to his mild surprise, his mother in the box designated for Bulgaria's reserve players and the team's families. He felt that now-familiar pang at the absence of his father, but shoved his feelings aside in favor of renewing his search with a new resolve. "I von't fail this time," he murmured in his native tongue, watching Plovdiv's Seeker and scanning the area near him for any hint of the Snitch.

A sudden glint of gold near Zograf's elbow caught his hawkish gaze, and he was off like a shot. In the opposite direction. The other Seeker fell for the feint, rocketing past him, only to brake too late and nearly collide with Dimitrov as he flew to intercept an opposing Chaser. Taking advantage of the other Seeker's distraction, he reversed quickly and soared towards the other end of the pitch. By then, the Snitch had changed its position and was fluttering near the Commentator's box, directly in line with Kasimir Lovaka, the Bulgarian Commentator.

He tore after it, and was suddenly aware of a presence right behind him. The Snitch's new position had been in Plovdiv's favor, and the other Seeker was streaking after him, hot on his heels and nearly level with him now.

An elbow jabbed at his stomach, and he grunted, body checking him roughly. Plovdiv's Seeker careened away then returned, slamming into him with equal force. They were neck-and-neck now, a mess of jabbing elbows, sweating bodies and muttered curses.

At the last moment, the Snitch fluttered innocently out of the way, and, tangled together as they were, neither could brake in time. A mess of tangled bodies, the two Seekers smashed into the benches in the Commentating box, only a seat in front of Lovaka and a few of the more influential Bulgarians that had demanded front-row seats.

Panting, Viktor struggled to his feet, broom in hand, and threw himself out into the open air, mounting the broom mid-leap and tearing away across the pitch after the elusive Snitch. The other Seeker took the time to mount his broom properly before taking off, and was a bit behind the younger Seeker, though not by too much.

"Fuck," he muttered, noticing that the Plovdiv Seeker wasn't far behind him.

He had to brake swiftly to avoid a Bludger that whipped across his path only a foot in front of him, and was relieved to see Harry immediately jump it and send it careening towards the other Seeker to make up for it.

He shot Volkov a look, and was rewarded with a shrug and a waving of a hand. Go_, damn it. Finish this before someone gets hurt._

Nodding almost imperceptibly, he rocketed after the elusive golden ball, every ounce of his concentration centered on that little fluttering glint of gold. He gained on it, zigzagging with it, only feet away now and steadily gaining on it. Hand outstretched, he leaned forward, half off his broom, straining to reach it. Then, in a stroke of luck, it turned left, directly into his outstretched hand. Curling his fingers around the struggling winged glint of gold, he held up his hand, and a small smile graced his lips, an expression seen rarely by the public.

He was vaguely aware of the team landing around him and slapping him on the back, congratulating him, but he only had eyes for Harry, and those amazing eyes of his. Smiling, he held out an arm, and the youth ducked into the one-armed hug, slapping him on the back. "Good game," he said, grinning.

"Good game," the ebony-haired Bulgarian agreed, leaving his arm draped across Harry's shoulders in a casual gesture.

Together, the team walked back to their locker room, chatting brightly. Viktor and Harry, however, walked at the center of the mob, a pair of black-haired lovers amidst a crowd of positive, happy starter players.

…

The team was scattered in the large locker room, with the women changing in the captain's office. The steady hiss of the showers in the background drowned out the soft conversation taking place.

"You did good," the deep baritone reassured quietly.

"Thanks. So did you. You're sure you're alright?"

"I haff done far vorse things than crashing into a bench, Harry. I'm fine, just a few bruises."

"Yeah, right." The slightly higher voice was skeptical. "You sound like me, now. I'm not that gullible." He shot the older boy a pointed look. Sighing heavily, he pulled off his shirt, revealing the half-formed bruises littering his torso, the largest of which began mid-side and ran all the way down to his hip, under the waist of his trousers.

"Happy?" he grunted.

He started to lower his shirt again, but froze when a hand, freezing against his sweaty skin, touched his side gently, followed by a pair of soft, supple lips.

"Better?"

"Much."

The taller Bulgarian pressed him against the wall, tangling his hands in his silky eye-length raven locks, crashing his lips against the other's. Moaning, Harry sucked on his lip tantalizingly, aware of the cool metal of the locker behind him pressing into his back.

"Get a room, you two!" Dimitrov teased from his position in one of the shower stalls. The only reply was Viktor's sweat-stained Quidditch jersey landing on his head. Grumbling, he tossed it aside and turned his back on the young lovers, knowing they weren't about to follow his oh-so-kind advice.

After a quick snogging session, the pair stripped and ducked into the showers, all too aware of the fact that they smelled like Azkaban convicts. Harry relaxed under the jet of steaming water, letting it soothe his sore muscles.

Stepping out, he toweled his hair dry and wrapped the fluffy scrap of cloth around his waist, then strolled into the main locker room, fishing his duffel out of the pile by the nearest bench. Dressing hurriedly, he brushed a nervous hand through his still dripping wet hair and stood by the door, waiting for Viktor. The Bulgarian was taking his time, frustratingly. Apparently he wasn't relishing the thought of having to deal with the reporters any more than Harry, but the genius that thought up the design for the locker rooms added anti Apparation wards into the mix, neatly preventing them from making a hassle-free escape.

Viktor finally finished dressing and pocketed his wand, looking none-too-happy about the fact that his contract with the team prevented him from ripping the reporters a new one for so much as looking at him the wrong way. Sometimes fame was a bastard.

Hoping that they could get away quietly and without much fuss, but knowing it would never happen, the two dark-haired Quidditch players hesitantly left the lockers, only to be engulfed by an over-enthusiastic crowd of reporters, admirers, and who knows what else.

"Here goes," Harry muttered, taking a deep breath to calm his suddenly jumpy nerves. Looking as if he were going to his execution and not out into a crowd of frenzied admirers, he ducked out the door, followed closely by Viktor, Ivanova, and Kaishoff.

The second he stepped out of the locker room, shouts and people pressing in closer to the four Vultures assaulted him. Blinking dumbly, he unconsciously took a step back from the riled crowd. A sympathetic hand on his shoulder urged him forward, snapping out of his nervous daze.

"Thanks," he muttered to Viktor, glad that no one seemed to notice the show of support from the scowling Bulgarian. Viktor just nodded almost imperceptibly.

Threading his way through the jostling crowd, he worked his way towards the Apparation point, all the while very aware of the paparazzi following him and his companions like overly loyal dogs. Viktor, meanwhile, was like an extremely quiet back seat driver, using a hand resting almost directly on the center of the tattoo on his back to direct him through the throng and down towards the Apparation point as quickly as possible. He was grateful for the directions, as he had no idea where to go and had for some reason found himself leading their little band of professional Quidditch players.

A camera flashed off to his left, and instinctively he slouched, trying to hide himself behind Kaishoff's petite form and failing miserably. For a moment he was reminded of Colin Creevey.

He sent Kaishoff an apologetic look, to which she replied with a one-shouldered shrug and a half-smile, and led his three companions out of the heart of the throng. They worked their way over to the point, and abruptly Viktor tugged him over behind the wall, wrapped his arms around the smaller boy's waist, and Apparated away.

They materialized a moment later on the empty street in front of what appeared to be a bar. If it weren't for several _very _well known people standing out front waiting for them, he would have wondered if Viktor had made a mistake in their destination.

"Um, Viktor, not that I'm not loving this, but could you let go of me?"

Blushing, the elder boy hastily lowered his arms. "Sorry."

"Ergh, don't worry about it. So, where are we?"

"Reivik's. They haff the best vodka in Bulgaria, and cater to the higher class. Ve don't haff to worry about being mobbed by fans here. You vill not get a lot to drink, though, I am thinking. They are still nervous about serving _me_."

Harry smirked.

"That's because you can't hold your liquor."

Viktor glared. "Not true."

"Is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't."

"Is-"

Harry was cut off, however, by Volkov Apparating behind them abruptly.

"Damn it, Volkov, don't **do **that!"

Smirking, the Bulgarian replied, "Sorry."

Rolling his eyes, Harry asked, "So are we going in or what?" Viktor looked at Volkov and the elder of the two looked back. Without a word, they each grabbed one of Harry's arms and led him inside.

**_Ergh, cliffhanger. Sorry, but I lost my creative inspiration for this chapter. It'll be in the next one, though, don't worry. I wouldn't skip over this! Sorry it's so short, I figured I'd better toss out a chapter._**

_**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! And yes, Harry will find out more about his wings…not for at least a few chapters, though. He ought to be at Hogwarts for that…don't ask, I've got something kinda screwy planned and he's gotta have certain people there.**_

_**Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long…no promises, however. I'm also working on another chaptered fic of mine, an Inheritance Trilogy one, Ruby and Sapphire. **_

_**I've decided to write a Harry/Viktor one-shot too, though, so for fans of the pairing that'll be coming some time soon as well. Er…if you're bored with waiting for an update, have a look at my favorites list? There's some good ones on there…**_


	6. Chapter 6

1

Reivik's was on the higher end of the nightclub chain, so to speak. Inside it was well lit, but the corners and ends of the bar were shrouded in shadow for those that preferred not to be in the limelight. A large stage sat front and center, with a dance floor that took up most of the admittedly quite large establishment. Tables were arranged around the aforementioned dance floor, far enough away so as to be out of the way, but near enough so it was easy to see the stage.

Harry's captors led him over to a booth near the stage, followed by several other team members and their friends and families. The raven-haired youth was amused to note that Levski and his wife, an ash-blond woman with lively eyes, were snogging away at the next booth over, apparently quite caught up in their post-match exuberance.

Viktor seated himself next to the youngest member of the team, casually draping an arm over his shoulder. Harry leaned into the unconsciously comforting embrace, wrapping an arm a tad possessively around the hawk-nosed man's waist.

A young woman at a table behind them, who had been eyeing the Bulgarian with interest, shot him a dirty look. Harry returned it with a bit more force, and she turned away, apparently a bit peeved at the fact that she'd lost a glaring match with a boy that couldn't be a day older than 17.

Smirking, he turned back to the lively conversation going on in front of him, only to find that the entire table was staring at him in amusement.

"Very subtle, Harry," Ivanova said sarcastically, causing the youth to blush.

"Pretend you didn't see that."

"See vot?" Zograf asked mock-innocently.

Shaking his head, Harry changed the subject with all the subtlety of an angry rhinoceros. "So what do you guys usually do here?" Almost immediately he followed that query up with, "Then again, maybe I _don't _want to know."

Smirking, Volkov replied, "I'm sure you don't. By the time you get around to haffing some fun, though, you vill be so smashed it von't matter."

He followed that statement up by waving over a waitress. She was rather short, but very curvy, and her ridiculously high heels gave her that extra bit needed to put her at average height. Curly reddish-blond hair seemed to dominate her face, and the white blouse she was wearing was stretched tightly across her chest. She smiled sweetly at the group and asked in rapid Bulgarian, "What can I do for you?"

Volkov looked at the 3 other players sharing the booth with the 3 of them, and one by one they gave their orders, mainly whiskey, vodka, or something called Cherry I'aishka. Zograf and Volkov opted for the first, while Dimitrov and Viktor chose vodka. Harry shrugged and ordered the last item, and Ivanova did the same. Sipping at the smoking vibrant red drink a bit later, he decided he'd made a good choice. Ivanova, however, had to choke down the first swig and loudly declared that it was up for grabs to anyone that wanted it. Harry ended up drinking that one as well.

By the time he'd finished his first two drinks, Dimitrov was well into his third and becoming even more outgoing than normal, which was saying something considering his personality.

It wasn't long before everyone but the 'designated sobers', which consisted of Levski, his wife, and a couple of the less alcoholicly inclined reserves were completely and utterly hammered. Harry and Viktor had managed to stumble out onto the dance floor and were reenacting a scene for a movie the younger boy had seen once. They were extremely close together, enough so that their breath mingled and their bodies were pressed together from their knees up.

The band, whose Bulgarian name translated to 'Exotic Reincarnation' in English, was driving the fast-paced dance. The dance floor was packed, sweaty bodies touching everywhere. A hand trailed across Viktor's back, and he sighed, leaning against the shorter boy. He held him upright fairly easily, conditioned as he was by the ruthless Quidditch practices he'd been going to for most of the summer now.

Seated at a booth behind them, Kaishoff and Ivanova were chatting away in low tones.

"So vot do you think of Harry?" Ivanova asked.

"He's not so bad, now that I haff gotten to know him. I admit, at first I thought he vould be nothing but a spoiled child vishing to be even more famous, but I can see now that he is not like that."

Ivanova smiled wryly. "In other vords, you see vot makes him so vell liked by us. He is famous, yes, but he does not revel in it. In fact, I get the impression that he hates it."

Kaishoff smiled grimly. "Don't ve all?"

INE

Thousands of miles away, an Order meeting was taking place. Dumbledore, smiling slightly, stood and clapped his hands for attention. Instantly everyone fell silent, eager to hear the good news the Headmaster had said was coming.

"I'm glad to announce that we have finally located Harry; however, getting him back home might be a bit of a challenge. It seems that he's left the country."

Whispers and hushed conversations broke out all around the room at the revelation. Ron, hotheaded as ever, exclaimed loudly, "I bet the dumbass jumped ship when he realized we were counting on him, the backstabbing coward!"

Dumbledore sent a stern look at the pissed off redhead, but Snape beat him to the verbal thrashing he deserved for that little show.

"Shut up, Weasley. You have no idea what is going on, and even if you did I seriously doubt you could come up with a suitably intelligent comment. Go play with your little friends and let us handle Potter's screw-up," he sneered from his position in the corner of the room.

Ron opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but a 'look' from Mrs. Weasley shut him up. Glaring at the assembled Order members, he said coldly, "I hope he doesn't come back, because if he does I'm going to make him regret ever leaving."

At that Remus lurched to his feet, eyes narrowed. The wolf was dangerously close to the surface; one slip and the stupid opinionated brat would find himself at the receiving end of a (Pre Moonal Syndrome) PMSing werewolf. Baring his teeth in a snarl, he said with all the warmth of an arctic glacier, "Is that a threat, Weasley? IS IT?"

Ron sneered. "What if it is? You're not going to do anything about it, are you, wolf? Why are you defending the bastard anyway? It's not like he means anything to anyone."

Remus's face went pale with rage as he listened to Harry's supposed 'best friend' badmouth his pseudo-godson. The insult to himself was brushed aside; he was used to those. The thoughtless, biased comments about Harry, though, set him off worse than anything could anymore. His hand strayed to his wand, and when Tonks noticed the unconscious movement, she decided to stop the fight that would be occurring soon if no one stepped in. Quite frankly, she wouldn't have minded watching Remus take Weasley down a peg or two.

"Sit down and shut it, the both of you. Weasley, get out of here before Remus kills you. Remus, calm down; the last thing we need is for you to be executed for murdering the little shit."

Ron glared venomously at her for dismissing him like that, and taking the werewolf's side on top of it, but Mrs. Weasley ordered him out into the hall for the rest of the meeting. He started to object, but a look from her forced him to shut up before he dug himself in any deeper. Reluctantly, he obeyed, though he got in a parting shot on his way out.

"Apparently Lupin's not the only idiot around here."

Tonks replied coldly, "Yeah, you should go get yourself checked out by a Healer. They might actually manage to figure out how you're capable of speech with only half a brain cell."

Reddening, Ron flipped her off and slammed the door on the way out. As soon as he was gone, Moody barricaded the door with a variety of anti-eavesdropping spells. Once that was done, he spoke for the first time since the argument had started.

"I can't blame Potter for leaving, if that's his best friend."

Mrs. Weasley glared at him and replied coolly, "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Mad-Eye. I happen to agree with my son. What kind of person runs away when someone's counting on him?"

"I don't know; why don't you ask Ron?" was the frigid reply.

Dumbledore cut in finally. "Everyone, please keep your opinions to yourselves. I'm sure Harry has a good reason for doing what he has." He didn't sound too sure though, as he spoke. It was clear he was of the opinion that there was no reason good enough to leave the Dursley's on his own and without telling anyone.

"Albus," McGonagall asked, "Where exactly is Harry?"

"Bulgaria," was his rather curt reply.

All hell broke loose.

INE

The next morning everyone's favorite Brit awoke to a pounding headache and an arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Snuggling further into the warm body behind him, he was surprised when the form pressed against him moved slightly. Rolling over, he looked into the very much awake face of Viktor Krum.

"Morning, Viktor," he said sleepily, yawning.

The Bulgarian loosened his grip so Harry could move himself into a more comfortable position.

The raven-haired boy did just that, and in the process brushed against a very sensitive area. A gleam came to the ebony-haired Seeker's eyes at the contact. It was another hour and a half before they finally got out of bed.

Pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, Viktor wandered into the kitchen to start breakfast while Harry searched his room for a pair of boxers. In the end, the 16-year-old just borrowed a pair of Viktor's. The other boy was a little thicker around the waist, though still slim, and they were a little big on him, but they would suffice, he decided.

Tugging on a pair of pajama bottoms, he wandered into the kitchen and came up behind the taller man, snaking his arms around the ebony-haired man's waist.

Resting his chin on Viktor's broad shoulder, he asked softly, "What do you want to do today?"

Viktor was quiet for a minute as he put more bacon in the pan. Then he replied, "Not sure. Do you haff any ideas?"

Biting his lip, Harry started to shake his head, but stopped halfway through. "Well, I hear there're some nice beaches along the Black Sea. Are you in the mood for some sightseeing?"

A rare smile ghosted across the 20-year-old's face as he leaned back into Harry's embrace.

"Sounds good to me. Ven do you vant to go?"

Harry's stomach growled loudly, and the raven-haired youth replied weakly, "After breakfast?" Snorting, Viktor nodded in agreement. Soon enough they'd worked their way through two plates of bacon, hash, and bread and were ready to go. After dressing in appropriate clothing for their outing, they set the dishes to washing themselves and Apparated to an alleyway in Varna.

INE

The two dark-haired young men spent the entire day in Varna, window shopping and having fun. They got a few dirty looks from people when they were seen walking hand-in-hand, but the glares they received from the twosome more than made up for it. Despite that, they enjoyed the day immensely, as it was one of the few days off they would have for a while.

With cups of coffee in hand, they wandered the streets of the city, making idle conversation and pointing out anything interesting they saw as they went. Finally, Viktor worked up the nerve to ask Harry something he'd been planning to for a while now.

"Harry, vould you come to my mother's for dinner?"

He sounded nervous, he knew, but he was afraid of the younger boy saying no, that this was only a summer fling and it would be forgotten about once he left for school in the fall.

The aforementioned 16-year-old smiled softly. "Why not?"

Viktor broke into a big smile, betraying the split feelings he'd been having over asking Harry to meet his mother. A sudden, horrifying thought struck him.

What if they hated each other?

He was torn away from his horrified musings by Harry's question. "When did you want to go?"

"How does tomorrow night sound?"

"Fine," Harry replied, looking nervous. "It'll just be your mom, right?"

Viktor nodded, "Yes." Staring at the ground, he took a sip from his coffee and made a face. It was getting cold now. Discreetly spitting the cold drink out onto the sidewalk, he tossed the cup into a nearby trash bin. When he returned, he found Harry sitting on a bench, waiting for him.

Seating himself beside the younger Brit, he snaked an arm around Harry's waist and leaned his head against his shoulder. Smiling, Harry leaned into the embrace.

"So when's our next game?"

Viktor bit his lip in thought for a moment, then replied, "Next veek, I think. If it's not, Volkov vill valk in on us so ve are not missing ven it happens." His smirk was audible in his voice.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, like I'll let that happen again. We'll never hear the end of it as it is," he said dryly.


	7. Chapter 7

1

The day finally arrived for the visit to Viktor's mother. Harry, dressed in black slacks and a nice button-up shirt, smiled nervously at his lover as they prepared to leave. Viktor returned the gesture, setting a reassuring arm on the raven-haired youth's shoulder. After they'd locked up the flat and checked that everything was taken care of, they stood in the entryway and Apparated; Harry enclosed in the comforting embrace of the tall Seeker. They appeared on the crest of a small hill overlooking a picturesque farm, complete with sheep, horses, and nearly a hundred acres of land.

Smiling slightly, his nerves nearly forgotten at the sight of the picture-perfect farmhouse and grazing pastures, Harry disentangled himself from Viktor's arms, catching hold of the dark-haired Slav's hand and twining his fingers with the other man's. Looking down at their joined hands, Viktor smiled slightly and led his younger companion down the hillside, hand in hand. They walked up the front drive, boots crunching on the gravel, and paused before the steps. The taller man turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow in question. Instead of replying with words, Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod and tilted his head slightly. They really were getting quite good at wordless communication, he mused absently as the twenty-year-old led him up the front steps and knocked lightly.

The door was opened a moment later, and Harry got his first glimpse of Sonia Krum. She was petite, with long dark hair, delicate features, and lively, friendly dark brown eyes, so similar to her son's, yet so different. Viktor actually took after his mother quite a bit; their hair, eyes, and complexions were almost identical, thought it was clear that the Bulgarian Seeker had gotten his height from his father.

"Viktor," she said warmly, smiling in a way that reminded him remarkably of Mrs. Weasley. She gave him a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then turned to the rather awkward youth beside him.

"And you must be Harry," she said in such a motherly way that he couldn't help but feel at home in her presence. Offering a gleaming smile, she ushered the two young men inside and ordered them to have a seat and talk with her. They chatted about anything and everything, and he couldn't help but relax around the woman. Obviously she was making an effort to make him comfortable with her, and he quickly decided that it wouldn't hurt to return the favor. Soon they got onto a topic that caused both males to squirm in their seats; she wanted to know about the nature of their relationship. They'd both known this was coming, but now, trying to articulate an answer, they couldn't help but wonder just what they were, romantically speaking. Struggling with a suitable reply, Viktor started to say that he didn't quite know, but Harry stepped in and offered her the answer he knew was true, at least how he felt. He couldn't answer for Viktor, but he was fairly certain that the other man felt the same way.

"We… we haven't really talked about it. I know how I feel, and I know that he means more to me than anyone else does, even my friends and family back home. I would gladly stay here, with him, if I could, but as things are, I have to go back eventually. Viktor… he means a lot to me. I know it seems like I don't have any idea what I'm talking about, but rest assured that we know full well what we're getting into."

Smiling approvingly, she replied, "Viktor, I see you haff found one who can think for himself. Believe it or not, dat vos the answer I vos looking for."

Smiling tentatively, Harry looked at the floor in an attempt to hide the fact that he was embarrassed at his words. He wasn't ashamed of them or anything like that; he just wasn't used to telling anyone about his feelings. When he'd been growing up, the Dursleys hadn't cared about his emotions; his friends had never managed to get him to open up to them; and the majority of the authority figures in his life didn't care about his feelings. They couldn't care less so long as he got the job done.

The first person he'd ever really bared his inner thoughts to was Sirius- and now he was dead. Really, the only person he could really count on to understand and not press him was Viktor. His list of trusted friends was almost pathetically short, what with Ron and the majority of the Weasleys scratched off of that, as well as all of the Hogwarts Professors and more than likely Hermione as well. He wasn't really sure what to think about her- she'd always stood by him, but then again, so had Ron for the most part and look at him now… No, he would wait and see what Hermione thought of everything before he blacklisted her.

Shoving his thoughts to the back of his mind, he concentrated on the conversation taking place, trying to forget about his life for a while and just enjoy the time he had here while he could. Most likely he wouldn't be seeing Bulgaria for quite a while- he'd grown to love the country, and of course Sofia, and he would miss it once he left.

He knew what he would miss more than everything else combined, though. Viktor. Viktor, who kept his nightmares at bay; Viktor, who made the best bangers he'd ever had; Viktor, who was quiet and unassuming, yet fiercely protective and shockingly aggressive. Viktor, who he was pretty sure he was in love with.

INE

Dinner with Mrs. Krum passed far too quickly, and Harry found himself reluctant to leave when the time came. He was surprised when Sonia hugged first her son and then him, as if he were already an unofficial member of the family. With a warm smile, she bade them a good night. After kissing Viktor's cheek and murmuring something in Bulgarian, she turned to Harry.

"Good night, Harry. I look forvard to seeing you again- something tells me you vill be visiting in the future," she said with a sly smile. "If things vork out, I vould like for you to visit for Christmas, if you vould like to?" she asked, eyeing him uncertainly, clearly worried that he would refuse her offer. Instead, to her pleased surprise, Harry smiled gently and replied:

"I would love to, Mrs. Krum."

Smiling warmly, she exclaimed, "Dear, call me Sonia. You make me feel old, calling me dat." There was a teasing quality to her voice that made him smile genuinely.

Waving, the two young men walked away down the drive. Once outside the Apparation wards, Viktor stepped closer and wrapped his strong arms around Harry's waist. The lithe youth leaned back into the comforting embrace, sighing contentedly. He let his head rest against the ebony-haired Slav's chest as they stood in the dark, looking back at the farm, its lights twinkling brightly in the darkness of the countryside. Gathering his magic, Viktor Apparated them away with a soft crack.

They materialized in the front entryway a moment later tired and content that Harry's first introduction to Viktor's family had been a success. Yawning, Harry took his lover by the hand and led him back into the older man's room, where they took only long enough to strip out of their clothing before collapsing into the bed together. Sliding an arm around to grasp the elder man's face, Harry turned it towards him and kissed him softly. With an exhausted smile, he said, "Your mother is a wonderful person." Smiling lazily, the other man replied sleepily:

"She likes you. Not many get along vith mother right avay."

Smiling wryly, Harry said, "What can I say? I'm just that likable." Laughing quietly, Viktor pressed their lips together again in a lingering kiss. Pulling away, he said:

"Yes, you are. Now sleep; you need it, love." Harry blinked at that, but Viktor had already closed his eyes and fallen into the abyss of sleep. Smiling brilliantly, Harry closed his eyes as well. Viktor had called him love. Did he really love him? He wanted to believe it so badly.

INE

Summer was drawing to a close, Harry knew. It wouldn't be long before he had to go back to England, back to his traitorous friends and manipulative Order members, back to a Viktor-free existence. The mere thought of being without the hawk-nosed Bulgarian for ten months made him want to drop out of school and hire a tutor so he could stay with the other man. But it wouldn't work that way- he needed to train, and Hogwarts was the best option for doing so. He could see Viktor on Hogsmeade weekends, holidays, and for games and however many practices he could work into his schedule.

It still wouldn't be enough, though. There would be no more sleepless nights spent with the ebony-haired Slav, wide awake and far from bored. The nightmares would return, just as they'd been before he and Viktor had gotten involved. To sum it up, this year would be going to hell in a handbasket.

Sighing heavily, he flipped yet again through his History text. He'd already finished all of his summer homework, mainly assignments that had been given despite the fact that there would be no guarantee of said work being needed, but he still needed to brush up on everything so he could be ready for the school year. With a pang, he remembered that it was Hermione that had gotten him into this habit. Every year, she'd badgered him and Ron until they agreed to review with her, and it usually ended up with Hermione studying and Harry and Ron having a blinking contest over the tops of their books while appearing to be reading said books.

It was a habit he would never be able to break now; it was ingrained in him, as much a part of the pleasant, carefree past as anything. Sometimes he wished they could go back to first, second, even third year, when things had been so much easier. True, they'd had their rough times and their challenges, but compared to this year and everything down to the TriWizard Tournament, it had been one big party up until then.

He hated what the war had done to him. To his friends, his family, his life, his future. It was all fucked up now, and he had no way of fixing everything that had gone wrong. Blinking, he tried to shove his rapidly darkening thoughts out of his mind; it didn't work all that well, but it gave him something to focus on besides his anger and resentment for everything that had gone wrong in his life. He had things to be thankful for, as well. He had Viktor and Sonia, and the Vultures, and Remus most likely, and of course Hedwig, his faithful snowy owl. He wasn't completely alone in this; he had people to lean on, people that cared about him enough to deal with him in order to be close to him.

Once again, he thanked his instincts and his impulsiveness that he hadn't stayed in England. Without his new friends and companions, he would have gone completely downhill in a matter of months, maybe even weeks. Suicide probably would have come to be a sensible solution to his problems; it scared him that he'd come so close to drowning in his regret, bitterness, and self-pity.

If anything, it made him even more grateful that he had whom he did. Friendship was something he would never again take for granted.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his eye-length raven locks and stood, stretching. He'd done enough reading for now; he needed to get up and _do _something. So he did. Barefoot, he padded down the hall to the living room and started methodically cleaning up the mess it had become. There was no question where the 'typical slob bachelor' stereotype had originated from- it was entirely true. Cleaning had become something of a second nature for him- when he'd lived with the Dursleys he'd become accustomed to constant work, and often used cleaning as a way to blow of steam. So now the habit was so deeply ingrained in him that it was almost second nature to set to cleaning when he was in a mood.

Picking up a dirty plate that was starting to develop a fine coating of fuzzy grayish mold, he walked into the kitchen, still in his boxers and a sleeveless T-shirt, and set to the task of washing the dishes, muggle style. It would take him longer and be more difficult, but he didn't care much for the way wizards relied on magic to do even simple chores, and had found himself doing things the 'normal' way quite often nowadays.

After he'd cleaned everything he was in the mood to, he changed into jeans and a lightweight shirt, tugged on socks and sneakers, and informed Viktor that he was going for a walk. The ebony-haired Bulgarian bid him goodbye and told him to have fun, then went back to chewing on the tip of his quill as he stared at the letter before him, obviously to a friend.

Harry closed the door behind him on his way out, not bothering to lock it; Viktor was home, so it wasn't like anything was going to happen. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he left the apartment building and set off down the street, thankful for his translation charm. Without it he would have been hopelessly lost. He stopped at any stores that interested him, mostly browsing through their selections whenever he got the urge to. Once he wandered into a shop to find the woman behind the counter engaged in an innuendo-laced conversation with a good-looking young man. Unfazed, he left the shop as soon as was possible without looking suspicious, wanting to give them some privacy should the young man decided that he was interested in whatever the woman might have to offer.

Once, in a bookstore, he found a book with quite the interesting depiction on the front. It was a young man with huge, arched wings, dark brown to match his hair. He flipped through the book eagerly, but all it said was that the being on the cover was a 'Ciren', pronounced sir-wren. He looked for any other books along the same theme, but found nothing of interest. Defeated for the moment, he left the store and returned to the flat he shared with Viktor.

When he walked in the door, the hawk-nosed Slav kissed him lingeringly by way of greeting. With a quiet smile, he asked, "How vas the city?"

Shrugging, Harry replied, "Great." He hesitated a moment, then told Viktor about the book he'd found. Frowning, the dark-haired young man drew his eyebrows together in his trademark brooding expression. Harry, however, knew that that was the look he adopted when he was trying to think of something. Eventually, with a frustrated expression, he gave up.

"I haff not heard the name before. It seems familiar somehow though. I… I cannot really explain it."

Nodding his understanding, Harry let the matter drop and changed the subject to Quidditch, a mutual point of spirited devotion for both of them. They spent nearly three-quarters of an hour debating over players and teams, arguing over who and which was better, respectively.

Harry found himself quite enjoying the light banter as they sat huddled together on the couch, the younger of the two with his head resting in the crook of the other's neck. As night fell, they dropped into a comfortable silence, just relaxing and enjoying what time they had left together before Harry had to leave for school in a week.

September first had snuck up on them quickly this year; quite the opposite of usual, Harry found himself reluctant to leave for Hogwarts in the fall. As they lay there, breathing the same air and sitting on the same couch, he couldn't help but think he would give up just about anything to stay here. The Wizarding World could go to hell after he killed Voldemort. He had too much of a conscience to just give up the war, but after everyone was safe (assuming he survived his confrontation with the Dark Tosser) he was going to settle down and spend some 'quality time' with his favorite Bulgarian.

Yawning widely, he snuggled closer to the solidly built young man beside him, breathing in Viktor's scent. Pine and honey- scents he would always associate with the tough-exteriored Bulgarian, just as Viktor would always think of him when he smelled cinnamon.

Content to spend the night on the couch, he lay down with his head in the well-endowed Bulgarian's lap and closed his eyes, almost purring with pleasure when gentle hands carded through his hair.

"Feels nice," he murmured sleepily. Smiling quietly, his lover continued the motion as he watched Harry drift off to sleep, purring deep in his throat all the while. Running a hand through Harry's dark, silky hair one last time, he closed his eyes as well and let sleep claim him. The morning sun rose to find them both fast asleep on the leather couch in the den, faces reflecting the peaceful quiet they felt within themselves at that moment. There were no words to describe how moving that sight was, the Boy-Who-Lived and the international Quidditch Seeker curled up on the couch together.

INE

Thousands of miles away, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks were seated on another couch, staring into the newly rekindled fire as they spoke softly to each other. Dark circles ringed both of their eyes, and they sat slumped over, arms resting on their knees. Both looked like the weight of the world was on their shoulders, and it was starting to get too heavy.

"I hope he's coming back," Remus murmured quietly, his sorrowful amber eyes following the movement of the flames as they flickered in the grate.

"Me too," Tonks sighed. She leaned back against the squashy material of the couch, her eyelids half lowered in exhaustion. She hadn't slept very well in a long time, ever since the Ministry debacle, to be exact. Most mornings found her in the kitchen or the sitting room, wide-awake normally, though rarely she was asleep after a particularly harrowing night.

Remus had never been much of a sleeper; he rose with the sun, usually, and as such he and Tonks had made a habit of sitting and talking in the quiet hours before the rest of the household awoke and the chaos of headquarters was brought to full force.

"Do you think he's alright?" the graying werewolf asked suddenly, his eyes shifting from the fireplace to his companion's face. Tonks's expression was conflicted- hopeful, but uncertain. Eventually, she spoke.

"Dumbledore would have said something if he weren't…" she trailed off. They both knew full well that the Headmaster kept many things from them, some of which were probably rather important. Neither really cared to admit that fact aloud, though; knowing the truth was enough for them at the moment. "I don't know, Remus." The two Order members sat in silence for a bit before Remus said softly, almost imperceptibly:

"That's what I was afraid you'd say."


	8. Chapter 8

1

**Sorry about taking such a ridiculously long time to finish this- I had to rewrite it three times before I was even remotely close to satisfied. That said, I really didn't care much for how this chapter turned out, but hopefully you guys will still like it. **

**Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, your comments and your support are much appreciated.**

--

September first dawned rainy and overcast; Harry couldn't help but think that it fit his mood perfectly. He was definitely _not _looking forward to heading back to Hogwarts this year.

Lying on the couch with Viktor's solid form pressed up against his back, he really couldn't think of anything he would want to do _less _than get up and get ready to leave. Sighing, he reluctantly decided that he had better get up and start on his morning routine.

Disentangling himself from Viktor's arms, being careful not to wake the snoring Bulgarian, he stumbled

into the bathroom for a shower. Yawning widely (it was an ungodly hour of the morning, but he had a lot of stuff to do before they left for King's Cross), he turned the water on as hot as he could stand it, then stripped off his boxers and stepped into the hot spray.

Ten minutes and a significantly more awake sixteen-year-old later, Harry stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, he dried off quickly and, wrapping the sodden cloth around his waist, walked out into the hallway.

He stopped a moment to watch Viktor sleep; it would be his last chance to do something like this for quite a while, and he wanted to imprint the image into his brain so he wouldn't forget it. The tall Slav was stretched out on the couch with one arm wrapped tightly around the pillow under his head and the other flopped down beside him where Harry had been not even a half-hour before. His mouth was open a little bit, and he snored lightly- thankfully not the ridiculously loud, rumbling sounds Ron had always made, the ones that had driven Harry to the point of Silencing him on numerous occasions.

With a somewhat bitter smile, Harry retreated into his room, determinedly _not _thinking about Ron. He would be seeing him in a few hours, anyway; there was no point in getting himself all worked up until he was within hexing distance of the backstabbing little weasel.

Shoving the not-quite-cheerful thoughts into the back of his mind, he surveyed the disaster zone his closet had become. Clothes had been strewn _everywhere_; piled on the floor, dangling haphazardly from their hangers, crammed onto the overhead shelves.

Groaning (_why _hadn't he started packing the night before?) loudly, he set to work. First off, to find some decent clothes to put on, preferably clean and not-too-wrinkled. He pawed his way through the clothing mountain in search of something wearable.

Fifteen minutes later he'd found boxers, trousers, and a slightly wrinkled but previously unworn button-up shirt; the socks, however, were being rather elusive. He'd found one, but its match was somewhere under the enormous piles of stuff he'd amassed in the corner of the room, and he really didn't feel like spending another twenty minutes trying to find it, so he grabbed one out of the closest pile and pulled it on, wrinkling his nose at the spots of dried mud flecking the side of it. Quidditch practice wasn't nearly as fun in the rain, especially when shielding charms interfered with the newest version of the Firebolt that they were testing out for the company.

Needless to say, that particular version had been sent back with a less-than-stellar performance report.

Now fully dressed (sans shoes, of course), he had no more excuses to prevent him from starting his packing. With a resigned sigh, he dragged his trunk over and started folding shirts- if he didn't fold everything and pack it in just right, it wasn't all going to fit. He'd gathered quite a collection of stuff over the years, and his trunk, from way back in first year, was going to be hard pressed to fit everything.

--

Viktor ended up being guilted into helping Harry pack; it turned out that he really had no resistance whatsoever to the puppy dog face, a fact which Harry used shamelessly. Even with Viktor's help, though, it took them nearly two hours to finish. By the time they were done, both of them were thoroughly sick of packing, and after dragging Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage over to the front door, they decided that cooking required too much effort.

So it was that they could be found at one of the shops on Viktor's street, ordering a ridiculously large amount of food for just two people. Then again, considering the way the two of them ate, maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.

"Are you going to eat that?" Harry asked, gesturing at the pastry on the other man's plate. Shooting the raven-haired youth an amused look, Viktor shook his head. He'd ordered two of them, after all- one for him, and one that he _claimed _was for him but was really for Harry.

"Vas for you anyvays," he said, smirking. Harry stuck his tongue out in response, but took the pastry and bit into it quickly, just in case Viktor changed his mind.

"I vish you could stay," Viktor sighed, changing the subject abruptly. He did that a lot- just out of the blue started talking about something totally different that had no bearing on the previous topic. To some people it might have been irritating, but Harry was something of a kindred spirit in that regard, so he really had nothing to complain about seeing as he did the same thing.

"Me too," Harry replied, the force behind his words readily apparent. "I'd much rather just stay here, but that's not really an option," he continued wistfully, a frown stealing across his face at the thought of going back to England for any length of time.

"Still," Viktor murmured, scowling. "Vill be very different here, vithout you around to vreak haffoc on everyvone. I vos liking vatching you shock them vith your un-celebrityness."

"Is un-celebrityness even a word?" Harry snorted, raising an eyebrow. "And besides that, how exactly am I 'un-celebrity-like'?"

Viktor flailed for a moment, obviously trying to find the right way of saying what he was thinking. "You are… humble. And not rude bratty Englishman they expected you vould be. Very relaxed- umm, normal-person-like. You know?" Suddenly he smirked. "And you are team player. Cannot forget that. Most likely they vould all hate your guts if you vere bludger-hog. But not to vorry, you are still very good-looking. Un-celebrityness has not ruined your attractiveness."

Harry blinked, surprised by the unexpected praise. Viktor wasn't exactly the kind of guy that showered everyone around him with compliments. Once in a while, yes, and quite frequently when their position was horizontal rather than vertical, but most of the time he let his expressions speak for themselves, since he tended to get tongue-tied whenever he tried to be anything even remotely resembling romantic.

"Thanks, I guess," Harry said with a smile, recognizing the attempt for what it was. "You're pretty un-celebrity-like yourself."

Viktor grinned, relieved. He was notoriously bad at being romantic- Hermione could attest to that. Then again, he hadn't been trying all that hard with Hermione. Sure, he'd liked her, even to the point of dating her, but women were a lot more difficult to deal with than other men. For one thing, other guys didn't get mad if you forgot about an anniversary or didn't send a dozen red roses and a love note on Valentine's day.

"Glad ve are un-celebrity-like together, then. Vould not be nearly as fun to be un-celebrity-like by ourselves," he joked, smiling.

"True," Harry replied, a hint of laughter in his eyes.

--

Thousands of miles away at that very moment, Headmaster Dumbledore was pacing in his office. He couldn't push back the worry- what if Harry had really deserted them? What if he didn't want to come back to Hogwarts? Or even worse, what if he had gone dark, and was at this very moment joining Voldemort? Well, OK, maybe not the last one- he seriously doubted Harry could ever side with the man who'd orphaned him and had by extension caused him to suffer greatly at the hands of the Dursleys.

One thing was certain, though- Harry was not the same boy he'd been at the end of the previous school year. Maybe it had been Sirius's death that had finally pushed him over the edge; maybe it had been something else entirely.

Whatever had happened, he was still needed. The Wizarding World needed their savior, their poster boy for the Light. He would be a source of great hope, now that the Ministry had finally admitted that Voldemort was back.

If only Harry could see that this, the future of the Wizarding World itself, was far more important than any juvenile shenanigans he was up to. Things would be so much easier if the boy would just accept things and do as he was told to. Then again, he wouldn't be Harry if he didn't at least break _some _of the rules. He (Dumbledore, that is) might even allow it, provided none of the rules that were broken were particularly important ones.

Sighing in frustration, Dumbledore continued to pace, lost in his thoughts.

--

Around ten-thirty, the two young men returned to the flat and collected Harry's things.

Sighing, Harry turned to the taller man and murmured, "Well, I guess this is it."

"You don't haff to do this, you know. You could stay," Viktor offered, though it was clear from the look on his face that he knew Harry would refuse the offer, no matter how tempting it might be.

"No, I can't," Harry replied, "not really. I still have _some _people in England that I care about. I can't just abandon them."

"You vouldn't be the man I loff if you did," Viktor murmured sadly, trying and failing miserably to smile at the younger man. Without another word, he enveloped the shorter man in a rib-crushing hug. There were no tears- neither of them were particularly prone to crying.

Burying his face in Viktor's neck, Harry breathed in his scent one last time, fixing it into his memory as best he could. After a long moment of just standing there, clinging to each other like the world was ending, Harry tilted his head up and kissed the older man desperately. Viktor responded with just as much force, crushing their lips together, content to stay like that forever.

Soon, though, they ran out of air, and were forced to break the kiss. Leaning his forehead against the younger man's, Viktor muttered, "Vill miss you. Very much."

"Same here," was the quiet reply.

Sighing, Viktor looked up at the clock and said, "Ve must be going if you vant to be there on time."

Nodding, Harry started to reach over and grab his trunk, but Viktor stopped him. He cast a quick shrinking spell on Harry's luggage, then handed the tiny trunk and cage to the raven-haired youth. (It was a good thing Harry had sent Hedwig on ahead, things would have gotten a tad messy if she'd been in the aforementioned cage at the time.)

For a long moment they just stood there, looking at each other somewhat awkwardly, both of them feeling rather stupid for acting like it was the end of the world when they'd be seeing each other again in two or three days at the very most.

Finally Viktor seemed to recall why they were standing there in the first place, and stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man.

They disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving the entryway silent and empty.

--

King's Cross station was busier than ever, with Hogwarts students and their families crowding the platform. Thankfully, Viktor had managed to Apparate them into one of the more isolated corners, so they weren't in danger of being overwhelmed by the masses of people milling about, getting in the way and generally making things harder than they needed to be.

Looking around for familiar faces and not finding any nearby, Harry turned back to Viktor, who'd removed his arms as soon as he remembered that they'd rematerialized in an extremely public place. Sighing, he asked, "I'll see you soon?"

Viktor nodded firmly. "The next practice is in two days, and ve haff a game the day after that. Hopefully ve vill be seeing much of each other," he murmured, with the closest he ever got to a suggestive smile.

Cocking an eyebrow in reply, Harry retorted, "Count on it."

He seemed to lose his playful edge after that comment, though, and after a short pause, he asked, "You'll write to me? Because I'll understand if you don't, I was just wondering, you know. I mean, we'll still see each other, it's not like we won't have plenty of chances to talk." Realizing that he was babbling, Harry stopped talking abruptly, his face going slightly red.

His face expressionless, Viktor replied, "Don't vorry, I vill be vriting. So much so that you vill get sick of me and vish you had not said anything in the first place." The last part was said with a slight hint of a smile.

"Ok," Harry replied awkwardly, smiling. "For some reason I think _you'll_ be the one getting sick of hearing from _me_, though," he added with a quick grin. Sobering, he looked back at the Hogwarts express, then up at the giant clock on the wall. It was ten minutes before eleven.

"I'd better go, or I'll never find an empty compartment."

Viktor nodded wordlessly, making shooing motions with his hands. "I vill see you soon." With one last—rather nervous—smile, Harry gave him a lightning-fast hug and walked away in the direction of the train. Viktor watched him go, eventually losing sight of him in the crowd.

Losing his smile, the Slavic wizard looked up at the clock again and Disapparated away.

--

Harry, meanwhile, had to walk almost the entire length of the train before finding an empty compartment. Sighing, he wandered inside and closed the door, then turned away from it to flop down onto the nearest bench. Stretching out on it, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, wriggling around to find a more comfortable position on the narrow seat.

He'd almost managed to doze off when the door opened.

"Is it alright if I sit in here? Everywhere else is full," a hesitant voice asked. Cracking one of his eyes open, Harry looked towards the source of the voice and nodded.

"'Course, Neville. Good to see you again, mate."

"How do you…Harry?!" the other boy yelped, eyes widened comically. "Bloody hell! I didn't even realize it was you!"

"Yeah, I look a bit different now, don't I?" he replied, keeping his voice as flippant as possible. "Speaking of which, so do you. Nice haircut."

Neville ran a hand rather self-consciously over his now-much-shorter hair. "Thanks," he said, grinning. "So, where're Ron and Hermione? Off doing their prefect rounds?"

"Dunno. I guess so," Harry replied, scowling at the ceiling. He didn't want to talk about his former friends, now or ever. As far as he was concerned, they were complete strangers to him.

Neville frowned slightly, catching the sudden change in the other boy's mood. "Oh. So, anyway," he floundered, obviously trying to change the subject, "I wonder who they've managed to talk into being the Defense teacher this year?"

"What are you on about, Neville? They have to beat people away from that job with sticks. I hear all the teachers are jealous, wanting the job for themselves," he teased, smiling.

Snorting, Neville said, "Who _wouldn't _be? I mean, everyone wants to have the one job no one's lasted longer than a year in, right?" They both snickered, recalling the various fates their previous Defense teachers had met, none of them at all desirable.

The two of them spent the rest of the trip catching up with each other, talking about their summers. Eventually, though, the subject of Harry's conspicuously absent former best friends couldn't be avoided any longer, and Harry told Neville the entire story. By the end of it, the other boy was more than a little incensed on Harry's behalf and rather shocked that Ron and Hermione would do something so horrible, especially to someone they didn't have any reason to betray the way they had. He had liked both of them well enough, and though they'd always been a bit condescending towards him, they'd never been cruel or exceedingly rude to him.

Either way, things weren't looking too good on that front.

--

They made it almost the entire way through the trip before Ron and Hermione finally made an appearance; Harry couldn't help but think of Malfoy—and his yearly visits to whichever compartment he, Ron, and Hermione had managed to snag for themselves—when the two Prefects walked in, Ron in particular looking horribly smug about something.

Ron walked in first, practically _radiating _arrogance. Completely ignoring Harry—obviously he didn't recognize him, which wasn't really that surprising considering how much he'd changed appearance-wise over the last couple of months—he turned to Neville and smiled, though it looked stiff and a bit forced.

Hermione was a couple of steps behind him, and when she stepped through the doorway and saw Harry sitting there, she stopped, frowning. Clearly she didn't recognize him either, but she must've noticed the similarities, because she blinked several times in rapid succession, as if she couldn't believe her eyes. She stood there for several moments, with both Ron and Neville staring at her in confusion. Harry just slouched lower in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, and waited.

Finally, after a long moment of total silence, she asked, "Harry?"in a faint voice.

He looked up at her, face carefully stripped of all emotion, and said icily, "Took you long enough."

Her eyes widened, shock and confusion prevalent on her face, and she sat down abruptly in the seat nearest the door, speechless.

Ron, on the other hand, was _far _from speechless.

"What're you doing here, Harry?" he asked, trying—and failing miserably—to sound anything but hostile and pissed off. "I figured you'd decided not to come crawling back, after you abandoned all of us like that."

"Who says I _abandoned_ anyone?" Harry retorted, eyes narrowed. "_You're_ the one who didn't want anything to do with _me_."

Ron opened his mouth to snarl something undoubtedly rude, but Hermione cut him off, apparently having finally recovered from the shock of seeing him again, when she probably hadn't been expecting him to come back. After all, he'd run off to a foreign country where he didn't even speak the _language _rather than stay with the Dursleys, in addition to the fact that Dumbledore, the man responsible for his having to stay there in the first place, was the Headmaster of the school.

"Look, Harry," she began coolly, "it's not that we're not glad to have you back or anything. It's just that… well, trouble seems to follow you everywhere. I understand that you can't help it, but we're just protecting our families. Voldemort's back, and he'll go after everyone you know, Harry. And if he can't get to us, he'll go after all our families instead. I'm sorry, Harry, but my parents are muggles- they wouldn't stand a chance against the Death Eaters. I'm just trying to keep them safe. You've got to understand that."

"Oh, I do, do I?" he snapped, shooting her the look he usually reserved for Snape or Malfoy. "Look, Hermione, you don't have to make up excuses for ditching me. I know the truth. If you really thought your parents were in danger, Dumbledore would've hidden them away, at Grimmauld Place or someplace else Voldemort would never find them. This isn't about your parents, Hermione. This is about you."

"Harry," Hermione said desperately, "you can't really believe that I would just abandon you, for no good reason?"

"Actually, Hermione, that's exactly what I believe."

She looked at him, lips thinning into an expression of displeasure. This wasn't going at all as she'd planned. Originally, she'd hoped that with a few placating words and some convincing apologetic looks, he would accept her story as the truth and continue to trust her to some extent. Dumbledore had encouraged the idea, in the hopes that Harry would tell her things that could be reported back to him. Now, though, it was becoming clear that that approach wasn't going to work.

She started to argue back, but thought better of it and instead said icily, "If that's how you feel, maybe I should leave." She watched him with narrowed eyes, waiting for his reply.

"That might be a good idea, yeah," Harry replied without so much as a flicker of hesitation.

Hermione met his eyes, making sure that he knew exactly what it was he was telling her to do—and that if she walked away now, she wasn't coming back—before turning deliberately slowly and stalking towards the door, her posture stiff and tense, like she was trying to hold herself back from turning back around and saying something cruel.

After she walked out the door, there was a long moment of dead silence. Almost immediately, Ron rounded on Harry and snarled, "This is all you goddamn fault, Potter! Why the hell did you come back? Couldn't you have just stayed away, left us alone, damn it?"

"So sorry if I've inconvenienced you," Harry sneered in response, pushing himself up out of his slouch and getting to his feet with deliberate slowness. "I didn't realize it was _my _fault you and Hermione turned your backs on me for no reason! I think _that _letter got lost in the mail." His tone was frigid, and there was no mistaking the hurt and bitterness in it.

He crossed his arms and glared, using the Special Glare. He'd practiced the Special Glare—in preparation for the inevitable run-in with Ron and Hermione—in front of the mirror (which he would never ever admit to, even after the time Viktor walked into the bathroom unannounced and caught him at it), tweaking and perfecting it. He was rather proud of the finished product, an expression that probably would've had Malfoy wetting himself in sheer terror with nothing more than a quick glance.

"You know what, I don't think I feel like talking anymore. Get out."

Ron started to reply, but for perhaps the first time in his life thought better of it. Maybe the Special Glare had had something to do with that; either way, the redhead shot him a venomous look but complied, slamming the compartment door behind him with a resounding _bang_.

"That went well," Neville commented into the awkward silence that followed.


	9. Chapter 9

I'm sorry about this taking me so long. My computer crashed (with the nearly completed new chapter on it) and I had to totally rewrite this chapter. In a way, that's a good thing, because I think this version of chapter 9 turned out better than the first one did, but it was very frustrating to have to redo the whole thing…

In some of the reviews, people asked why no one knew where Harry was, since his name was obviously announced at the Quidditch matches and in the papers and everything. The answer: Well, this is a (gaping) plot hole but now that you've got me thinking about it, I've decided that they were introducing him as a 'mystery player' (I.e. they don't reveal his name until they decide that it's a good time. I'm sure _real _teams don't do that, but if Harry told them why he wants his name kept out of the paper they'd probably go along with it, at least for a little while.) Not to worry, though, his identity will soon become common knowledge. 

Also, I've decided to change the name of Viktor's owl. It was originally Orion, but since then I've decided that he needs a Bulgarian-type name. From here on out, he'll be known as Vasili. I figured I'd let everyone know so I wouldn't get peppered with reviews about name inconsistencies…

Lastly, a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far. I love getting feedback of any kind, especially concrit, so don't be shy- let me know your opinion! Now, on to the story…

--

Harry and Neville stepped out of the Thestral-drawn carriage and stopped abruptly, just barely avoiding being trampled by a pack of loud, talkative fourth-year girls. A couple of them shot the two boys irritated looks at having gotten in their way, but their expressions quickly became a lot friendlier once they got a closer look at Harry. Whispering excitedly and nudging each other with their elbows, they caught up with the rest of their friends and started giggling—he was really starting to hate that sound—about something.

He really didn't want to know what it was exactly that they were getting so excited over, but he couldn't help hearing the not-too-quietly spoken, "Oh my god! Do you think he's got a girlfriend?"

Inwardly, he groaned; he didn't want _more_ attention, especially of the romantic variety- that was what he had Viktor for, after all. He had absolutely no desire to be drooled over by giggling fangirls who were enamored by the Boy-Who-Lived and didn't give a damn about Just Harry. Frankly, he thought it was kind of ridiculous.

The two Gryffindor boys walked up the steps and across the Entrance Hall, then stopped and waited at the doors leading into the Great Hall. The doorway was crowded with people, and they figured they'd be better off waiting for the majority of them to get out of the way.

After enough people had cleared out for them to enter without having to shove their way through, the two of them headed inside. Harry paused for a moment to check for Ron and Hermione. Seeing them sitting at the end nearest the doors, he led Neville to the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, closest to the staff table. It was as far away from them as he could get while still actually being at the same table. He didn't care much for the idea of sitting so close to all of the teachers, but there was no way he was going to sit anywhere _near _Ron and Hermione after their behavior on the train.

Harry flopped down into an empty seat next to a fourth year girl he couldn't remember the name of; Neville sat down on the other side of him, glancing around at their present company to see if anyone was paying much attention to them and their choice of seating.

Aside from a few curious looks, no one really was. Most of the attention was focused on either their friends or down at the other end of the Gryffindor table, where Ron and Hermione were sitting _without_ Harry Potter. Ginny, Dean, and Seamus were with them, the latter two looking rather uncomfortable. No doubt Ron (and more than likely Hermione, too) was bitching to them about how much he hated Harry, or something along those lines. Seamus was starting to look like he wanted to get up and move; only the fact that his best mate, Dean, was still sitting there kept him from moving. Frankly, it looked like Dean didn't really want to be there either- the look on his face closely resembled that of a cornered animal's. The fact that he was dating Ginny—who was holding his hand and listening to Ron speak with a rapt expression on her face—was probably the only thing keeping him there.

Harry himself didn't really give a damn what anyone was saying about him anymore. He'd gotten used to being badmouthed and slandered at every turn, regardless of what he said or did. Anything Ron or Hermione could say was nothing compared to what had been said about him in the Prophet the previous year. He could ignore whatever rumors they wanted to spread about him; it wasn't like they could hurt him much more than they already had, in any case.

He was jerked from his musings by the arrival of the first years. Absently, he noted how small and frightened-looking they were. Had he been that short when he was eleven?

_Who am I trying to fool? I was probably smaller than any of these kids_, he thought to himself. _I doubt any of them lived in a cupboard for ten years and lived off of table scraps._

Professor McGonagall set the three-legged stool down at the front of the Hall and let the Sorting Hat sing its yearly song, then started calling forth the first years in alphabetical order. Somewhere between 'Emmett, Sara' and 'Garnes, Brian' he lost interest in the proceedings and turned most of his attention to looking around the Great Hall, people-watching.

Most of them weren't doing anything of interest, sitting and watching the Sorting. A few of the Slytherins were huddled at the end of their table, having a rather animated conversation, but Harry couldn't tell what they were saying—he wasn't much of a lip reader at the best of times, with them so far away he had virtually no chance of figuring out what they were talking about, probably nothing of interest to him, anyway—and he soon turned his attention elsewhere.

Roughly halfway through the Sorting, he decided to have a look at the new Defense Against the Darks Arts teacher. It wasn't anyone he recognized. He wasn't sure how he felt about that; at least with a familiar face he had some idea which side he or she was more inclined to take. He had no clue yet whether or not the new Professor—a tall, broad man with curly black hair and the kind of face only a mother could love—agreed with Dumbledore's methods, so he decided to reserve judgement until he knew more.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the entire student body falling silent, and Dumbledore standing to address them all. Thankfully, he usually kept the speech until after the Welcome Feast was finished, so there wouldn't be much of a wait between the Sorting and the Feast.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," the elderly man began with a genial smile, "Now, there is a time for speech making and a time for eating; I believe the latter will come sooner than the former. Tuck in!"

On that note, he seated himself again, and the food began to appear on the tables. Harry immediately started piling everything in easy reach onto his plate; Neville watched somewhat incredulously as he ran out of room on his plate and started putting _more _food _on top _of the other stuff.

"Did you, you know, _eat _at all this summer?" he asked, shooting a significant look at the mountain of food on Harry's plate. "I've never seen you eat this much in one _day _before, let alone one meal."

"Must be a growth spurt or something," Harry replied around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, trying with moderate success not to spray food everywhere as he spoke. "I've been like this ever since my birthday."

He started to shovel another spoonful into his mouth, but stopped mid-bite as it hit him. "My birthday…" he murmured, scrunching his eyebrows up as he made the connection. His birthday, when he'd coincidentally also happened to grow wings, leap a couple of inches in height _literally_ overnight, and gain slightly enhanced senses. Well, to be truthful the senses bit hadn't been nearly as drastic as the rest, and after a month of dealing with the changes he'd gotten used to them- a lot of the time he didn't even notice the difference until he heard or smelled something he never could've before the changes had taken place.

Whatever was going on, it clearly wasn't normal in any sense of the word. Well, maybe _ab_normal… he shook himself mentally, trying to get his thoughts back on track. He needed to pay a visit to the library; maybe he'd have better luck of finding some information there. One thing was for sure- he wasn't going to ask anyone if he could find out without resorting to that.

The rest of the Feast passed pretty much like usual: everyone ate far more than was good for them, they sang the school song—"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts!"—and Dumbledore gave a rather predictable and frankly uninteresting speech that was basically along the same lines as the ones from previous years, with the exception of introducing the new Defense teacher. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Ugly turned out to be Professor Andrew Barrett, a former Curse Breaker and more than likely an Order member who'd been coerced into taking the position. Well, at least he'd know his magic, then, even if he _was_ quite the eyesore (much like Professor Moody, now that he thought about it).

In a nutshell, it was a typical beginning for another year at Hogwarts. Harry was _not _looking forward to it.

--

Later that evening, after everyone had wandered up to the Tower and the upperclassmen had seated themselves around the fireplace, talking (most likely) about their summers and other equally boring topics, the portrait hole creaked open and Professor McGonagall stepped through.

Seeing that Harry wasn't sitting by the fire with everyone else—he'd gone up to the dorm to avoid Ron and Hermione for the time being—she turned to Dean and asked, "Mr. Thomas, would you go and fetch Potter for me? Tell him that the Headmaster would like to speak with him."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replied, standing and hurrying up the stairs to the boy's dormitory.

He returned a moment later with a rather reluctant Harry in tow, and then went back to his spot by the fire, squashed into the corner of one of the couches next to Seamus. Ron, seated on the opposite end of the couch next to Hermione, said loudly, "He's in for it now!"

Harry scowled in Ron's general direction before turning away to follow Professor McGonagall out into the corridor. She led him down to Dumbledore's office—not speaking a word the entire way—and ushered him inside, her expression stern and lips pressed together into a thin line. That more than anything else clued Harry in to the fact that she wasn't too happy with him at the moment. His 'jailbreak' might've had something to do with that…

When he entered the office, the Headmaster looked up at him and smiled, although there was none of the usual twinkle in his eyes. Harry noticed—with not a tiny bit of relief—that there was no one else present; at least he wouldn't have to have this conversation with several Order members looking on.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn't a question, although the way he said it made it sound like one.

"Yes, I did." The elderly wizard surveyed him over the top of his spectacles, making sure that he saw the disappointment clearly displayed in his expression. "Have a seat, Harry."

The raven-haired youth reluctantly did as instructed. It wasn't lost on him that the Headmaster hadn't offered him a lemon drop, even though the tin was sitting on his desk, opened. He'd known that something like this was coming from the moment he'd left Privet Drive and had already thought about what he was going to say when he was questioned, so he wasn't too terribly nervous about it, but all the same he wasn't looking forward to the conversation that was about to take place.

Leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands, Dumbledore began, "You had us all extremely worried, Harry. Now, I realize that Sirius's death affected you strongly, but that is no excuse for needlessly running off into danger. You know very well what—and who—is out there, and just how important it is for you to stay safe. Why did you leave, Harry? And why didn't you come to Grimmauld Place, or the Weasleys' home?"

"My Uncle kicked me out. I figured I'd better be gone by the time he recovered from the result of trying to attack me, so it wasn't as if I really had a _choice _in leaving, anyway." Harry paused for a moment before continuing. "With all due respect, sir," he began, his tone anything _but_ respectful, "I didn't go to the Order or any of the Weasleys because, aside from not trusting most of you, I'm sick of it all. I'm not your poster boy. I'm not your pawn. And I'm sure as hell not your _weapon_. I'll kill Voldemort, but it won't be because of anything you've said or done. I'm doing it because I don't think I could live with the knowledge that I'm the only one who can put an end to the bloodshed, and I didn't do anything to stop it."

He slouched back in his chair, crossing his arms. "If it weren't for the damn prophecy, I'd be perfectly fine leaving you to fight your own goddamn war. I don't want any parts of it, but seeing as I'm the only one that can kill him, I don't have much of a choice in the matter, now do I?" he said bitterly.

"Harry, I certainly don't blame you for not wanting a hand in all of this. But don't you think that it would be so much easier if you allowed me to help you? I can offer you valuable guidance, things that will aid you in your efforts."

"You mean you want to control what I learn and how I go about it." Harry smirked, amused by the Headmaster's attempt to manipulate him, even after the miniature speech he'd just made about not wanting any parts of the aforementioned 'training' being offered. "I'm not stupid, you know. Try being a little subtler next time."

Dumbledore sighed loudly. "I'm simply trying to help you, my boy."

"Don't call me that," Harry replied sharply, glowering at the Headmaster. "I'm not your 'boy'. I'm not your _anything_."

Dumbledore froze. Things were _not _going according to plan. Harry was supposed to see the error of his ways and ask for forgiveness, and then accept any offers of assistance eagerly and promise to do whatever he was told. He certainly wasn't supposed to be _talking back to him_, of all things. It was disconcerting, listening to Harry say things like this, especially without an angry, petulant outburst following almost immediately about wanting to be normal or how it wasn't fair that he had to sacrifice himself for the greater good.

"Harry—"

"Can we move on now, please? Anything else you wanted to interrogate me about, sir?" he interrupted coldly.

Deciding not to say anything about the 'interrogating' that was apparently going on, Dumbledore instead asked, "Where did you go, and why _did _you come back, if you're so set on not receiving any extra instruction?"

"I'm going to answer the second question first. I never said I didn't want _any _extra instruction, I just said that I didn't want it from _you_. Find me some instructors—preferably people that actually know what they're doing—and I'll choose which ones I want teaching me. That sound OK to you?"

He cocked an eyebrow at the older wizard, daring him to object. After a long moment, the Headmaster nodded resignedly. After all, he could always claim some credit for the teaching after Harry killed Voldemort- anything to help his standing in the Wizarding World, especially after the beating his reputation had suffered throughout the last year.

"Alright. And the other question?"

"I've been abroad…"

"Yes, I figured that out a while ago. Where exactly did you go?" There was no point in revealing that he'd known that Harry had gone to Bulgaria. Partly because he wanted to see if Harry would lie to him, and if so how much truth there was to it, and partly because he still didn't know _where _exactly in Bulgaria Harry had been. All further scrying attempts had told him much the same thing as the first: a tall, dark man was accompanying him and they were somewhere in Bulgaria. He'd discovered the second fact when he'd seen a street sign written in Bulgarian at the edge of the scrying image, the third time he'd tried it. He'd of course gone looking for Harry, and sent Order members out when they were on their shift of what had previously been 'Harry-Watching', but none of their searches had turned up any further information.

"Bulgaria," Harry admitted freely. He and Viktor had discussed how much he should tell the Headmaster about where he'd been and what he'd been doing; they'd agreed that most of the information that would be asked of him could be revealed, since everyone would find out about it later anyway, and some of it would _need _to be told so that Harry could keep his position with the Vultures.

"Sofia, for the most part. Viktor Krum's got a flat there, I stayed with him." He could see the Headmaster getting ready to ask a more politely phrased version of 'what the hell were you _thinking_?!' and decided to head him off at the pass, so to speak. Rolling his eyes, he added, "And before you ask, Viktor is no more of a Dark wizard than Neville Longbottom is. Just because he was taught about the Dark Arts doesn't mean that he actually _uses _them. Oh, and by the way I'll be needing to leave the school for Quidditch practice and games occasionally, too. I'm the new second Beater for the Vratsa Vultures. Can't let the team down, you know."

Dumbledore's eyes widened perceptively. Harry swallowed a grin and continued, "Transportation's already been arranged, of course, and I won't have a problem keeping my grades up in addition to that and any further training, so don't even start on that."

"Very well then," the Headmaster replied stiffly, still in a state of shock at Harry's blatant rudeness towards him. "I don't believe I have any further questions for you at the moment. I will let you know about your options for instructors by the end of the week. You may return to Gryffindor tower."

"Of course. Goodnight, sir," Harry said with a satisfied smile, nodding at the Headmaster. Dumbledore nodded back, but didn't wish him a good night, clearly irritated by Harry's demeanor.

After the door had closed behind him, Dumbledore dropped any semblance of a pleasant mood and scowled fiercely at the doorway. "Why must you be so difficult, Harry?" he sighed angrily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on.

One of the portraits on the wall—an old woman with her graying hair pulled back in an elaborate knot—began hesitantly, "Professsor, not to sound rude, but the boy has a point–"

"Shut up!" he snapped, "If I wanted your opinion I would've asked."

The portrait huffed loudly, insulted, but fell silent save for a muttered, "In my day, one wouldn't dream of being so rude to their elders."

--

Harry entered the Common Room to find it completely empty. Apparently everyone who'd been downstairs still when he'd left had turned in for the night. He thought gratefully of the security spells Viktor had taught him to keep people away from his belongings. He'd cast them on all of his things as soon as he'd gotten up to the dorm, just in case Ron decided to do something nasty to any of his stuff.

He was thanking that foresight now as he walked up the stairs to the boy's dorms and opened the door to his own dorm quietly, peering inside to see whether everyone was still up.

Ron, Dean, and Neville already had their curtains closed, apparently asleep, but Seamus was still up, digging through his trunk in search of his pajama shirt. He looked up when Harry came in and said, "Hi, Harry," with a warm smile. Thankfully, it looked like he hadn't bought into whatever shit Ron had been saying about him.

"Hey, Seamus. How was your summer?"

"Pretty good, I visited my cousins in Killarney for a couple of weeks," was the somewhat muffled but no less enthusiastic reply, because he had just stuck most of his upper body into his trunk to look at the very bottom. "Next year I'm actually going to _pack _the damn thing," he muttered, setting a stack of textbooks on the floor next to him. They'd been sitting on top of the majority of his clothes, including his pajamas.

In a louder voice, the Irish boy asked, "How about you?"

"Oh, I was abroad for most of it," Harry replied, grinning. "In Bulgaria. It was cool." He changed into his sleepwear quickly—which mostly consisted of stripping down to his boxers and stuffing all of his discarded clothing into his trunk—and turned to get his bed ready.

"Merlin, Harry!"

He turned around and looked questioningly at the Irish youth. Seamus grinned and hooked his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at his own back, "Wicked tattoo, Harry."

"Thanks," he replied with a grin. "Took bloody _forever _to get it done, and I couldn't sleep on my back for a week because it hurt too much."

They finished getting ready for bed in relative silence, save for the usual beginning-of-term comments—"Merlin, Harry, did you take a growth potion or something over the summer?"—and after saying their goodnights they both crawled into their beds and drew their curtains closed.

Harry wriggled under his blankets and rolled over onto his side, wrapping an arm around his pillow, and closed his eyes with a sigh. Within moments, he'd drifted off to sleep, and his dreams were plagued, not with visions of doors in the Department of Mysteries or Voldemort in all his snaky, red-eyed glory, but images of Viktor. Needless to say, they were very good dreams.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: First off: a huge thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story, despite my horrible updating habits! I'm glad so many of you liked the last chapter; I was worried that I went a bit overboard with the Harry-Dumbledore conversation. I also wanted to thank everyone that left me constructive criticism; it helps me a lot when people point out the inconsistencies and plot holes in my writing, especially since I plan on rewriting this fic. (Don't worry, not until after I've finished it! I know how frustrating it is when authors start a story over without finishing it first. I also know how frustrating it is when an author takes forever to update... I'm not going to make promises with that, but this story is NOT abandoned. It might take me a while between updates, but there _will _eventually be updates.) Anyway, here's the next chapter. Once again, my apologies for taking such a ridiculously long time to update.

* * *

Dozens of owls swooped into the Great Hall, heralding the arrival of the morning post. Harry, used to it after so many years of watching post owls flood the Great Hall every morning, ignored the commotion but looked up from his breakfast quickly, startled, when Viktor's owl, Vasili, landed in front of him. Offering the owl a bit of his toast, he quickly took the letter attached to his leg and opened it.

Neville, who was seated beside him, asked curiously, "Who's it from?"

"Just a friend," Harry replied absently, his attention focused on the letter in front of him. It was fairly short, but by Viktor's standards it was positively chatty.

_Harry, _

_We are having an evening practice tomorrow. I will pick you up around 6, and we should be done by 10 at the latest. Don't worry about bringing anything- I think most of your things are still in your locker. You should have everything you need, but if not you can just borrow from me._

_Also, a word of warning- we are thinking of 'unmasking' you at the next game, which is this Friday if I have the date right. We can wait until the one after that if you want, but we should do it soon. Volkov is about to burst with the effort of keeping you a secret from the press, and if we make him wait much longer I think he might have a coronary. _

_It's very quiet here without you making a mess and banging around in the kitchen... I think I miss the chaos. It will be nice when you are back, and this house does not seem so empty anymore. _

_Love, _

_Viktor _

He smiled softly, refolding the letter and stuffing it into his pants pocket. For some reason the 'love, Viktor' at the end had given him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. God, wasn't _that_a cliché. He was going soft or something; there was no other explanation, he wasn't even the romantic type... well, not much of one, at least. He definitely wasn't one for chocolates and poems and bouquets of a dozen red roses, and all that other mushy stuff that guys did for their girlfriends. Thankfully, Viktor wasn't much of a romantic, either, so he wouldn't have to worry too much about that kind of stuff. In Harry's opinion, relationships were difficult enough without adding in the stress of trying to 'do something special' for your significant other all the time. Things like that should be reserved for special occasions, or when some sucking up was needed to keep from being forced to sleep on the couch.

"Here, Harry," Neville murmured, handing him his schedule. "I hope we don't have any classes with the Slytherins..." he added, looking over his own schedule rather anxiously. Even with his newfound confidence in his abilities, courtesy of the DA, Neville still hated confrontations and everyone knew that he was one of the Slytherins' favorite targets.

"Looks like we've only got one with them, thank Merlin. Defense," Harry replied, glancing over Neville's shoulder at his schedule, which was much the same as Harry's. Neither of them were taking Potions, having failed to get an O on their OWLs in the subject, and most of the Gryffindors were in the same core classes, so those at least they were together in. The only real differences in their schedules were Neville's Herbology class, which Harry wasn't taking-he'd never been much of a fan of plants that could kill, eat, or otherwise maim you if you weren't careful. Neville was fascinated with them, though-he always seemed to have his nose buried in a book relating to the subject.

"Good," Neville said fervently, glad to hear that the majority of his classes wouldn't contain any of the Slytherins. "No more Malfoy!" After a beat, he added, "Well, except in Defense."

"Yeah," Harry added, "No more Snape, either."

"Thank Merlin," Neville said, glancing over at the staff table where Snape was sitting in all his yellow-toothed, greasy-haired, big-nosed glory. Suppressing a shudder, the slightly pudgy boy turned back around and muttered, "I think I've just lost my appetite."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, Snape'll do that to you, won't he? Can you imagine sitting up at the staff table with him for every meal? You'd probably starve to death after a while, what with him constantly putting you off your food."

Neville snorted, pulling a face. "I feel bad for all of the Professors up there..." Harry outright laughed at that, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the edge of the table.

"Me too."

The two of them finished breakfast quickly and left the Hall to go get their books from the dormitory. They'd decided earlier to just leave them up there and come back for them after breakfast-without their schedules, they had no way of knowing which books they needed to bring with them, and it just didn't make any sense to go traipsing around with a bunch of books they didn't even need.

Harry and Neville walked up to the Gryffindor common room in relative silence, making good use of the numerous secret passageways (i.e. shortcuts, although if you didn't know how to navigate them correctly, they could turn out to be a lot longer than the 'official' route itself) that cut the distance they had to walk nearly in half. One such passageway even somehow prevented you from having to go up a flight of stairs, even though the entrance and exit of it were on two different floors. Harry still hadn't quite figured out the mechanics of that one, despite years of wondering about how it was possible.

They collected their books for their first classes-Charms, Transfiguration, and, in Neville's case, Herbology-and headed back downstairs in the direction of Professor Flitwick's classroom, hoping that they wouldn't run into any 'trouble' along the way. Luck wasn't with them on this particular day, though, and they had only just reached the end of the corridor that Professor Flitwick's room was located on when Malfoy, flanked by his two brainless cronies Crabbe and Goyle, rounded the other corner and spotted them. With a sneer, Malfoy started towards them.

"Hey, Potter! How come you're buddying up to _Longbottom _of all people? Where're your little friends? Having a little tiff with the mudblood and the blood traitor?" he drawled with a smug look on his face, like he'd just said something exceptionally clever and was proud as a peacock of it.

Harry shot the blond-haired boy a cold look and snapped, "Bugger off, Malfoy. Why don't you go harp on Weasley and Granger? I'm sure they'd make for a bit more fun."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Ah, so the Golden Trio _is _a bit fractured of late. What happened, Potter? Did they get tired of having to cover their eyes every time they looked at you?"

"Malfoy, just because you're so painful to look at that your friends have to shield their eyes doesn't mean that mine need to do the same. You'd think with all the money you have that your parents could afford for you to have gotten some medical intervention for that, but I guess not."

"Well at least I _have _parents," Malfoy retorted, a flush rising in his cheeks at the insinuation that he was _ugly_, of all things.

Unable to think of anything to say to that, Harry just clenched his jaw and shoved his way past the other youth, stalking down the hall towards the Charms classroom. Neville followed him with a deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes, casting anxious glances back at the three Slytherins.

"What, did I hit a nerve there, Potter?" Malfoy called after him, his smirk now firmly back in place. The 'ugly' comment seemed to have been forgotten in the wake of finding something that genuinely pissed Harry off.

Harry whirled around and shot him a ferocious glare, one even more intimidating now that he no longer had to wear his glasses. "Shut the bloody hell up, Malfoy, or I'll hex you so badly you won't be able to see straight for a week," he snarled, drawing his wand with such speed that no one had even realized what he was doing until his wand was already leveled at Malfoy's head, dead center between his eyes.

"Give me a reason. I fucking _dare _you," Harry instructed the other boy coldly.

Malfoy eyed him nervously, the smirk vanishing. "That sounds like an invitation, Scarhead," he said coolly, the frightened expression in his eyes belying his even tone.

Harry stared at him icily for a long moment before Neville touched his shoulder and said quietly, "C'mon, Harry, just ignore him. We're going to be late." Clenching his jaw, Harry lowered his wand and shoved it back into his pocket. He turned and stormed off down the corridor, Neville following a couple of steps behind him. Malfoy and his goons watched the two of them go with confused looks on their faces - the encounter hadn't been anything like they were expecting it to be, and they were having a tough time understanding _why_.

* * *

The day passed mostly uneventfully after the run-in in the hallway, thankfully. Anyone who might have felt the need to poke and prod at Harry (which would've been akin to poking a dragon with a stick, what with the rapidly darkening mood he was in) kept their distance and there were no more confrontations. Harry was both glad of and frustrated by that fact; on one hand, he didn't want anyone getting up in his face and sawing on his already frayed nerves, but on the other he was at the point where he would've gladly welcomed the opportunity to hex the daylights out of someone. He wasn't an overly violent person, but even so it would've been a good stress reliever.

That evening after dinner, Harry went to the library to see if the school had any more information about Cirens than what he already knew. Which, truthfully, wasn't much. Walking into the quiet, nearly empty room (it _was _the start of term, after all, and most of the students-with the exceptions of the fifth, sixth, and seventh years, who were slammed mercilessly with assignments even at the start of term-hadn't received any homework yet, not to mention that most people avoided coming to the library if they could help it since Madam Pince wasn't exactly the friendliest of sorts) he headed straight for the section labeled 'Magical Creatures'. Madam Pince glared at him as he passed by her desk, but he ignored the dark look he was getting and slipped into the first row of books, out of the grouchy librarian's line of sight.

Walking slowly down the row, he scanned the titles of the books, looking for likely candidates to have the information he was looking for. It took a while, but eventually, after a lot of fruitless searching, he stumbled upon a thick, leather-bound tome with gold lettering scrawled across the cover-_Rare Humanoids And Everything You Could Possibly Want To Know About Them_.

Bring the thick book over to a table half-hidden behind a row of books on Transfiguration spells gone wrong, he flipped it open to the index page and scanned the old, dusty page quickly. Spying the word 'Ciren', he glanced at the number beside it and quickly turned to the specified page. He was disappointed to find that it was only a single page in length, and not even a full one, at that. Whatever he was, he obviously wasn't very popular.

Squinting a little in an effort to see the small, spidery-looking print, he read:

_'The Ciren, a creature that has not been seen since the days of the Founders, was undoubtedly one of the wizarding world's least-documented humanoids. Often mistaken by muggles to be of either angelic or demonic nature, depending on who it was that sighted them, Cirens were winged human-creature hybrids. While mostly human, they carried traits that were decidedly animalistic-the most prominent feature of which was their wings, which often grew to have a nearly twenty foot wingspan to support the weight of their bodies in flight. These wings were seen to come in a myriad of colors, most of the neutral spectrum-shades of black, white, grey, or brown. Strangely enough, though, these wings did not enable the Cirens that possessed them to fly for any great amount of time or at any significant height. It was-and still is-speculated upon why exactly these creatures were in possession of such appendages if they were not capable of using them in any extended form of flight. There are a number of plausible explanations for these wings. Some researchers believe that these wings were merely part of the mating process, to be used in a manner not unlike a peacock's. Others are not convinced. There are a myriad of possible uses-for example, they might have been used to identify a hierarchy of sorts. Cirens were never documented as having a strict hierarchy like werewolves possess, but the possibility is certainly still there.'_

He frowned down at the text, running a hand over his face in frustration. Sure, speculation was all well and good, and it did bring up some interesting thoughts, but he was looking for cold hard facts. The few meager sources he'd found so far hadn't really told him much more than he already knew, and none of it was anything he couldn't have guessed or at least figured out eventually on his own. At least the book explained why he'd had such a difficult time finding information on Cirens; although, once again, it hadn't told him anything he hadn't already suspected.

Sighing, he shut the book and returned it to its place on the shelf. He searched for a while longer, but after scouring the entire section devoted to magical creatures and finding absolutely nothing, he gave up for the time being. He would've checked the Restricted Section as well, but Madam Pince's suspicious eyes felt like they were burning a hole in his back with the strength of her stare and he knew there was no way he'd be able to sneak inside under her watch. He would have to come back after curfew, under the invisibility cloak, and have a look around then.

With one last frustrated glance at Madam Pince (who glared back wordlessly, eyes steely and--if he was reading her expression right--just a tad smug, like she knew exactly what he was thinking and was taking great satisfaction in thwarting him in his search), he left the library, heading back to Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

It seemed to take an incredibly long time for all of the his dorm mates to fall asleep. He didn't dare leave while they were still awake--he didn't doubt that Ron would rat him out in a heartbeat if he caught him sneaking out in the middle of the night--and even after the sounds of movement and shifting blankets stopped, he lay in his bed for a bit longer.

Once he was relatively certain that everyone else was asleep, he slipped out of bed and quickly switched his pajama bottoms for jeans, sliding his wand into his back pocket. Grabbing a random shirt from the floor by his feet, he pulled it on and then knelt by his trunk, opening the lid as quietly as he could. Rooting through the mess of clothes, books, and miscellaneous items inside, he eventually managed to locate the Marauder's Map and his invisibility cloak. Lowering the lid gently, he started towards the door. After only a couple of steps, though, he reached back to pull the privacy curtains back around his bed to disguise the fact that there was no one in it. He doubted anyone would notice his absence, but it paid to be cautious, especially when someone was doing something they shouldn't be.

Once outside the door, he pulled his cloak on. The Common Room was most likely deserted on account of the late hour, but Harry himself had spent all hours of the night down there enough times to know better than to take it for granted. He made sure that he was completely covered before descending the stairs into the large room, allowing himself a sigh of relief when it proved to be empty. He crossed the room and exited the portrait hole, pulling out the Map as he stepped into the corridor and the portrait swung back into place behind him.

After a quick scan of the aged parchment to make sure he wouldn't be having any run-ins with Filch or Mrs. Norris, he set off down the corridor at a fast pace. The quicker he got this done, the more sleep he would get, and the more sleep he got the better. He had a feeling his teammates weren't going to go easy on him the next day.

The library was dark and silent when he entered it, and it remained that way as he bypassed all of the regular bookshelves and headed straight for the back of the room. A quick spell granted him access to the Restricted Section, and he left the door opened a crack; all the better to help him make a fast getaway if it became necessary.

Murmuring a quiet, "Lumos," he started walking down the first row of books, using the light from his wand tip to scan the titles for anything that looked promising. By some stroke of luck, he didn't even have to walk down the entire first row before he found what he was looking for. A thick tome covered in a remarkably large amount of dust caught his eye, the tiny set of wings imprinted on the spine of the book sparking his interest.

Pulling it from the shelf and propping it up on his left forearm, he opened it carefully, prepared to slam it shut again if it started screaming or tried to attack him as books housed in the Restricted Section were sometimes wont to do. Fortunately, it did no such thing. It just laid there quietly, doing nothing that could be considered unusual for a book, and after a moment Harry, feeling a little foolish for being so cautious over a _book _despite knowing that it was a wise course of action, deemed it safe to start reading.

It took a lot of page-flipping, as there was no index and the chapters didn't seem to have any titles (nor did the book, for that matter), but eventually he found the section he was looking for. It started off slowly, reiterating everything he'd learned from the other book he had read, but he devoured the words nonetheless, eager to learn more about himself. This was more than likely the only reading material he would be able to find about Cirens--at least, the only reading material that could give him actual _information_--and he'd be damned if he was going to put it back on the shelf and leave before he'd read everything it had to offer.

Propping his chin up on his hand, he continued to read late into the night.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Harry received another message. This one, though, arrived on the leg of a barn owl he didn't recognize and the handwriting on the outside of it was unfamiliar. Frowning, he untied the letter from the owl's leg and unrolled the small scroll. Bracing his elbows on the table, he read:

_Potter,_

_You'd better be coming to practice tonight. We need our other Beater, you know. In case Viktor hasn't already told you, he'll be coming to pick you up at 6. Don't keep him waiting too long, I won't excuse lateness no matter **how **far you need to travel to get here._

_Volkov_

Harry rolled his eyes. Yep, that definitely sounded like Volkov. Tucking the newly-arrived mail into his book bag, he went back to eating, shooting a reassuring smile across the table to Neville, who smiled back a bit hesitantly. The dark-haired boy had been watching him read the scroll with a small frown, obviously wondering if it was bad news. Harry took a big bite of his toast, relishing the flavor of the thick layer of jam spread over the top of it, and leaned forward to rest his head on an upraised palm as he chewed. Keeping himself upright took effort, and it was a bit too early in the morning--especially since he'd been holed up in the Restricted Section for hours the night before, exhausting the collection of books on magical beings--for anything to do with expending energy.

Blinking wearily, he took another bite.

After the reminder that he would be seeing Viktor again in only a few hours, the rest of the day seemed to pass painfully slowly. McGonagall assigned them an essay on the different varieties of shape-changing spells (a full roll of parchment at the minimum, due by Friday), the DADA Professor started them on a huge project (which mainly consisted of researching a variety of different spells and creating arguments both for and against the practicality of using them in battle), and Flitwick gave them a twelve-inch essay due at the end of the week. By the time dinner came around (and, by extension, Viktor's arrival) Harry was beginning to think that there was some sort of conspiracy among all of the Professors about assigning him massive amounts of homework as closely as possible to practice and game days. He supposed he would find out if his theory was right when he next had a practice.

He hardly ate anything the entire meal, knowing that high speeds and a full stomach didn't mix well. Finally, at ten to six, Harry couldn't stand the waiting anymore and started to get up from the table, planning on going to wait for Viktor in the Entrance Hall.

Just as he was about to stand up, though, a tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway. The Hall began to buzz with whispers and speculation as Viktor set a course for the Gryffindor table. Someone a few seats down from Harry asked loudly, "What's _Viktor Krum_doing here?" Eyes throughout the Great Hall darted towards Hermione, obviously expecting the area of the table where she was sitting to be Viktor's destination.

No one did a very good job of hiding their surprise and confusion when Viktor walked right past her like he hadn't even seen her and continued down the table to where Harry was at.

A/N: ... I'm a horrible person, leaving it on a cliffhanger like that.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: And here's chapter 11! Once again, I'd like to thank everybody that reviewed; you guys are awesome! Feedback = love. :)

* * *

"Ready to go?" Viktor asked, offering up a reserved smile. It was pretty obvious that he was feeling a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many people, whispering and speculating loudly, apparently under the (highly mistaken) impression that he couldn't hear them.

"Yeah," Harry answered quickly. He followed the taller man out of the Hall, determinedly ignoring the looks and murmurs going on not-so-discreetly behind his back.

The second they were out of the Great Hall and away from prying eyes, Harry launched himself at Viktor and threw his arms around his waist, bear-hugging him shamelessly. Viktor let out a surprised, "Ooph," but hugged him back just as tightly, a rare smile openly displayed on his hawkish face as he rested his chin on top of the younger boy's head.

"You missed me, then?" Viktor murmured.

"Stupid question," Harry said, his voice a little muffled by the fabric of Viktor's shirt. "Of course I did."

Viktor laughed quietly, more out of relief that their brief time apart hadn't distanced Harry from him any than because of what the raven-haired youth had said. "Missed you, too," he said, pulling back a little to put some space between their bodies. Harry frowned in confusion for a moment, until Viktor tilted his head up and leaned in, and then his expression smoothed out into something a lot less negative-looking as their lips met and he tasted the inside of Viktor's mouth for the first time in (what Harry deemed as) far too long.

Of course, Murphy's Law decided to kick in at that exact moment, and one of the double doors leading to the Great Hall opened behind them. Dumbledore stepped through, closing the door again behind himself, and started towards the doors (and subsequently Viktor and Harry), frowning in what he was obviously trying to pass off as grandfatherly disappointment and worry.

He faltered a little when he caught sight of the two entwined figures, their bodies pressed so closely together that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, but then he seemed to shake it off and approached them, undeterred by the distinctly negative vibes he was receiving from the other two occupants of the room. "Mr. Krum, I believe I must ask what you are doing here. For safety reasons, of course," he said with a falsely polite smile. "Can you imagine the problems that could crop up if I were to allow free run of the castle to any visitors that so wished?"

Viktor's tone was distantly polite, maybe just a little on the frosty side when he replied, and the small smile from before was now completely gone, replaced by his trademark scowl. "Of course, Headmaster Dumbledore. I vould not vorry, though, I vos just coming to get Harry."

"Get Harry?" Dumbledore echoed, brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't believe I understand you correctly, Mr. Krum."

"He means it exactly how it sounds, Professor," Harry cut in, not quite rudely but still in a tone that lacked any semblance of warmth or respect. "I've got Quidditch practice this evening, and Viktor agreed to come pick me up."

"Did he now?" Dumbledore asked in a deceptively mild tone, shooting Viktor a glance that couldn't be mistaken for anything but annoyance. It was painfully obvious that he didn't like the idea of allowing Harry to have the freedom to leave the castle, even if it was only for the evening. "And where would you be going for this practice?'

"Um, _Bulgaria_?" Harry replied, starting to get irritated with Dumbledore's friendly-grandfather-figure persona when less than a week ago they'd been trading sharp words in the old man's office. "And before you say I 'forgot to mention it to you'," he added, "I already mentioned that I'd have to leave for practices and games sometimes." He knew he probably sounded a little bitchy, but it was _Dumbledore_; short of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and maybe his aunt and uncle, he couldn't think of anyone that was more deserving of being bitched and snapped at by him.

"Ah, yes, I do recall you saying something along those lines." Clearing his throat, Dumbledore continued, "How long would this practice be lasting? I can't have you disappearing off to another country for entire nights at a time, Harry. It's a safety issue, you must understand."

'Yeah, I'll bet it's a "safety issue" all right,' Harry thought sourly, but he nodded reluctantly nonetheless. Turning to Viktor, he asked, "How long d'you think it'll take?"

"A few hours at least," Viktor replied, talking to Harry but raising his voice a little for Dumbledore's benefit, even though he was feeling a strong urge to do exactly the opposite. "The team vill be vanting to vork you hard, since you haff not had a chance to come to any practices the last few days."

Harry turned to the Headmaster, cocking an eyebrow at him. It was obviously a challenge, daring Dumbledore to refuse him. It was painfully obvious he was fishing for excuses to make Harry stay, or at the very least have him back where he could keep an eye on him as soon as possible; the elderly wizard didn't have the upper hand anymore, though, and even if he told Harry he couldn't go, it would be more of a request than an order. He needed Harry to stick around to off Voldemort, and if that meant letting him have his way, then Dumbledore was going to have to allow it whether he liked it or not.

"I suppose it would be acceptable to allow you to go--" Dumbledore began with a slightly resigned air "--but I must ask that you have him back at a reasonable time, Mr. Krum. He _does _have classes to attend tomorrow, and tardiness will not be excused."

Viktor looked at him seriously. "I vill haff him back by morning, Headmaster." He sounded exactly like a teenager going to his first dance, telling his date's father that they wouldn't be out past midnight. Without waiting for a reply, he turned away from the elderly wizard and started towards the door with long, purposeful strides (hindered only slightly by his distinctly duck-footed gait), draping an arm possessively across Harry's shoulders.

Harry slid an arm around Viktor's side in response, curving one of his hands around the jut of the larger boy's left hip, and stared straight ahead, stubbornly resisting the (admittedly rather strong) urge to glance back at the dumbfounded expression that was no doubt gracing the Professor's face at that moment. Instead he focused on Viktor's warm mass against his side and the strong, stubbled jawline he could see from the corner of his eye if he turned his head just a little, telling himself repeatedly that it _wasn't _going to kill him to miss the expression on Dumbledore's face at being treated to the ice-man routine by a _nineteen-year-old_.

They left the castle and walked down the front steps without another word. It wasn't until Harry was absolutely positive they were out of earshot that he said nonchalantly, "Viktor, you have an _unbelievable _amount of self-control."

The taller man huffed a laugh, tightening his arm a little around Harry's shoulders. "Comes vith all the practice. Can't be telling reporters to fuck off vhen I don't vant to talk to them, you know."

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "_Such _a pity that we can't."

Viktor shot him a grin. "Mmhmm. Vould be very entertaining."

Harry grinned in return, an image of a snarling Viktor telling the paparazzi to go do something anatomically impossible with themselves popping into his head unbidden. It was a bit hard to picture; he'd never really seen Viktor lose his temper before. When Viktor got upset about something, his default reaction seemed to be more on the mellow side: he would scowl and bitch and cross his arms, but he seemed to favor the cold, bitingly polite approach over screaming, yelling, and throwing things. Harry was thankful for that. After all, one person with a short fuse was bad enough - his temper was horrible enough as it was without factoring in Viktor's, too. Fortunately, they hadn't really had a big fight yet to test their level of compatibility in that particular area, which seemed to say that it wouldn't be an issue at all since they'd gotten along so well for as long as they had.

It only took them a couple of minutes to walk out to the main gates. Once they'd crossed the threshold, Viktor traded his arm-over-the-shoulders for a full-on hug, winding his arms around Harry's lean body and pulling him close. Harry returned the gesture, settling his chin on Viktor's shoulder--he had to stand on tiptoe to do it, the difference in their heights was so big--and squeezing tightly.

With a sharp crack, Viktor Apparated them away.

* * *

Practice was long and exhausting. Nonetheless, Harry enjoyed it for several reasons.

For one thing, it was a chance to see Viktor and the rest of his teammates, who he'd definitely come to see as friends in the short time he'd known them. It was also a chance to get up in the air and smack the living shit out of things with a bat, which was, without a doubt, a better and significantly less controversial method of relieving stress than hexing the irritating gossip-whore classmates he was being forced to put up with back at Hogwarts.

Thirdly, it gave Viktor a legitimate reason not to Apparate him straight back to Hogwarts after practice was finished. After all, it wouldn't be a wise course of action to risk Splinching because Viktor was worn out from a tough practice, just so he could get back to Hogwarts before morning, now would it?

That was how they both rationalized it to themselves (or rather, to Dumbledore in the, admittedly more likely than not, case that the old wizard asked why Harry hadn't gotten back until the next morning) as they let themselves into Viktor's flat and collapsed into bed together, still damp-haired and steam-reddened from their post-practice showers in the locker room.

You gotta love those power showers.

As worn out as they were, though, they still had plenty of energy left over for less-than-innocent pursuits. The second they hit the sheets, Harry pushed Viktor onto his back and straddled his thighs, leaning down to kiss him feverishly. Viktor returned the action with equal fervor, twining their tongues together and grazing his teeth lightly against Harry's bottom lip as he settled his hands on the younger boy's hips. Harry responded by tangling his right hand in Viktor's dark hair, the left one being used to support his weight as he devoured the other boy's mouth.

After a few minutes of fervent kissing, Viktor pulled back, panting. Harry looked down at him in confusion, loosening his hold on the Bulgarian's hair. "Viktor?"

Rather than voicing a reply, the older boy pushed himself up into a sitting position.

Harry slid off of him to sit on the bed. "What's wro--" he started to ask, but was cut off abruptly as Viktor laid a hand on his chest and pushed him down onto his back, crawling on top of him.

He felt Viktor's ragged breathing on his face for a moment before the Bulgarian's lips moved across to his right ear, sucking on the lobe for a moment before slowly nibbling up along the shell, using enough force to be felt, but not to cause pain.

From there he mouthed his way down Harry's neck, leaving a trail of vibrantly red hickeys in his wake. Harry arched up into the heat of Viktor's body, an involuntary moan leaving his mouth as Viktor's teeth scraped against his sensitive skin. The pleasure of the sensation was heightened even more by the the warm wetness of Viktor's tongue, soothing the marks he'd left on the younger boy's flushed skin, and Harry, moving totally on autopilot, tilted his head to the side a fraction to give Viktor's mouth better access to his neck.

"Fuck, oh Merlin," Harry panted. His hands slid up underneath Viktor's shirt seemingly of their own accord, blunt nails scratching against sweaty skin and leaving long, shallow lines in the older boy's taut flesh. "Viktor--"

Viktor's mouth reached the bottom of his neck at that point, and he bit down lightly, not quite hard enough to break the skin, on the juncture where his neck met his shoulder. Harry jerked, but it was pleasure he was feeling, not pain, and he growled low in his throat, urging Viktor to do it again.

He did, on the other side of Harry's neck this time, and Harry couldn't stop himself from moaning loudly at the sensation.

Closing his eyes, Harry revelled in the toe-curling, eyelid-fluttering, rough-low-gravelly-moaning _good _sparked by Viktor's lips and teeth against his skin, Viktor's hands exploring his body, Viktor's warm breath against his neck.

Later, the main thing he would recall of what happened that night would be--as cliche as he knew it to be--just how _right _it all felt, like a part of him that had always been missing had finally been found.

* * *

The next morning was a bit more rushed than usual as Harry and Viktor showered (together, to "save time"), dressed (Harry borrowing jeans and a T-shirt from Viktor, since all of his clothes were in his trunk back at Hogwarts), and shoveled down bowls of cereal (which they both ate with orange juice as a substitute for milk, since Viktor was out and orange-juice-soaked cereal didn't taste as bad as vodka-soaked cereal would have), knowing that they had to be back to the castle in time for Harry to get ready for his first class but wanting to drag things out all the same. One night hadn't been nearly enough time for them to "catch up", regardless of the fact that they hadn't been apart for very long, and neither of them were looking forward to being separated again.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what was going to need to happen; for the time being, at least.

When they arrived just outside the front gates, though, neither of them were in any particular hurry to untangle themselves from their embrace. They stood there for several minutes longer than they probably should have, not saying a word but just soaking in the warmth of each others' presence, until Harry finally pulled away with a sigh.

"I'd better go," he murmured reluctantly, a trace of apology in his tone.

Viktor nodded. "Yes. Vouldn't vant savior of the vizarding vorld to fail all his classes because of reluctance to leave his boyfriend," he teased, reaching out to ruffle Harry's hair affectionately. Harry let out a squawk of protest and leaned back out of arms' reach, but by that point it was too late. Any semblance of neatness his hair might have possessed was long gone. "Vill see you later, Harry," Viktor murmured.

Mock-frowning, Harry exclaimed, "Y'know, it sounds like you're trying to get rid of me or something."

Viktor just snorted, shaking his head in exasperation. "Go," he said, turning Harry around and giving him a gentle push in the direction of the gates.

Harry allowed himself to be steered, but looked back over his shoulder to say a quick, "I'm feeling a bit unloved here," as he left, pouting in an extremely over-dramatic fashion.

Viktor just rolled his eyes, a smile teasing the edges of his lips, and Apparated away. Harry glanced up at the castle towering in the distance and felt his spirits drop a little. Sighing, he began the long trek back to what he now affectionately referred to as "Hell".

* * *

The rest of the day went by excruciatingly slowly. It seemed like _everyone _wanted to know what exactly he'd run off to do with Viktor Krum; the gossip mill was going full steam and just in the few short hours he'd been back, he'd overheard at least a dozen different versions, all of them rather outlandish and none of them even remotely close to the truth. A few brave souls worked up the courage to ask Harry personally, but he always gave them a short, noncommittal answer and walked off before he could be pressed for details.

By the time classes had finished for the day and everyone had crowded into the Great Hall for dinner, Harry was thoroughly sick of people asking questions.

It was no real surprise, then, that when a nervous-looking third year, bolstered by the presence of several of her friends, approached him and asked him where he'd disappeared to the evening before, his answer was short and snippy. "It's none of your bloody business," he snapped at her. "It's _no one's _bloody business what I do or where I go. So stop _asking!_"

Red-faced and sufficiently chastised, the girl hurried back to her group of friends. Harry watched her go with a frustrated look on his face, and only turned away when Neville, who was sitting on the other side of him and had been silent throughout the exchange, asked, "Are you okay, Harry?"

Harry smiled a little at the worry that was clear in Neville's voice, his bad mood lightened a little by the knowledge that he had at least _one _person at Hogwarts that cared about him.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a bit stressed."

Neville, although he clearly realized there was more to it than that, let the subject drop. He'd known Harry long enough to know that he would say he was fine even if he was bleeding to death on the floor. The rest of the meal passed pretty quietly--after Harry's less-than-quiet outburst, no one was eager to try his patience any further; after all, his temper was well-known among the other students--and it was the same way up in the Common Room later on. Harry planted himself at a table in the corner with his books, intent on getting at least _one _assignment done from the veritable mountain of homework he'd been assigned.

Neville, it seemed, was the only person with both the guts and inclination to sit by him, seated on the couch on the other side of the table with a book about magical plants that, judging from the title--Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Things That Grow In The Dark--flourished without the advantage of full sunlight.

With the stubbornness he was famous for--well, that and the highly-overrated scar on his forehead--Harry forced himself to finish his entire Transfiguration essay and half of his Charms one before he decided he needed a break.

Tossing his quill aside and flexing his aching wrist, he asked Neville, "Hey, Neville, want to go down to the kitchens with me?"

Neville glanced up from his book in surprise. "You know where the kitchens are? I've never been there..."

"Yup. Wanna go with me?"

"It's after curfew," Neville began uncertainly, looking around. "What if someone sees us leave? There's no such thing as 'keeping quiet' with all the backstabbers we've got around here."

Harry shrugged. "Not a problem, really. I mean--" he glanced around the Common Room, deserted save for themselves and a few fourth years gathered around the fireplace feverishly attempting to copy each others' Potions essays, "--it's not like there's anyone here that's about to go and report us."

"Alright then," Neville agreed, his desire to see the kitchens for the first time outweighing his nervousness about the situation. "I suppose."

"Great," Harry said, grinning. He quickly stacked his books and shoved them back into his book bag. "I'll bring these upstairs and grab the Map, and then we can head out. Want me to bring your book up for you?"

Neville looked surprised by the offer--he obviously wasn't used to people doing favors for him--but accepted with a smile and a quick, "Thanks, Harry," handing over the heavy, gaudily-colored (strange considering it was a book about things growing in the darkness) volume. Harry brought his bag and the book up to the dorm, dropping his bag onto his four-poster and setting Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Things That Grow In The Dark on Neville's nightstand.

Taking care to be quiet so he wouldn't wake up any of the others (thankfully they were all fairly heavy sleepers and the muted fumbling he was doing wasn't about to wake them up), he knelt in front of his trunk and quickly removed the charms protecting it from being tampered with, then dug through the haphazardly stored items inside until he found the Marauder's Map.

Pulling it out, he stuffed it in his pocket and replaced the charms with a mutter and a quick flick of his wand.

Tramping back down the stairs, he met Neville by the portrait hole. Digging the Map out of his pocket, he tapped it and murmured, "I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

Immediately, dark ink began to spider its way across the parchment, forming the Map. Neville eyed it curiously, having never seen it before--he'd heard about it, all the Gryffindor guys in their dorm had, but up until that point, Ron had been the only one of them besides Harry to see it in action--but he didn't get much of a chance to look at it before Harry was swinging the portrait open and stepping out into the corridor, eyes trained on the Map to make sure they weren't about to walk head-long into Filch or one of the teachers.

Neville followed, hoping to Merlin they weren't about to get caught out after curfew.

* * *

A/N: Don't worry, I'm not going to deprive you of the Viktor-Hermione&Ron confrontation! There'll be bitching and insults and plenty of vicious tongue-lashing going on!


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: OMG!! An update! Are you all shocked? :D

* * *

The trek down to the kitchens was pretty uneventful. Save for a rather close call when Filch doubled back mid-corridor and started heading their way when they were out in a relatively long, open hallway with nothing to hide behind--there weren't even any suits of _armor_, which was practically unheard of considering the fact that there were very few halls in the entire castle that didn't contain at least one--and they had to duck into an empty classroom nearby to avoid detection, it passed smoothly, and soon they were standing in front of the giant fruit painting that hid the entrance into the kitchens.

Neville watched in confusion as Harry tucked the Map away in his pocket, and his expression absolutely priceless as Harry tickled the pear, causing the handle to appear. Yanking the door open, the dark-haired youth glanced back at his friend and grinned.

"Coming, Neville?" he asked, disappearing into the room beyond. Blinking, Neville tentatively stepped inside, closing the door behind himself. Almost immediately, both of them were accosted by knee-high house elves offering them food in amounts considerably larger than they would be able to eat in a week, let alone a single sitting.

One particular elf was especially enthusiastic in greeting them--he nearly knocked Harry off his feet when he latched onto his knees. "Harry Potter sir!" the elf squeaked, "You is here!"

"Hi there, Dobby," Harry said, patting the small creature rather awkwardly on the head. "How're you?"

"Oh, Dobby is wonderful sir! Wonderful!" He shot Harry a toothy smile, tennis ball-sized eyes impossibly bright, and asked, "Is there something you is wanting, Harry Potter sir?"

"Nothing in particular, no. Thank you though, Dobby."

Dobby's eyes grew even brighter, if that was possible, at being thanked. "Oh, it's no trouble, no trouble at all, sir. If you is wanting something, let Dobby know and Dobby will get it for you."

"Alright. It was good seeing you again, Dobby." The elf nodded, his ears flapping comically, and disappeared back into the crowd of elves, presumably to continue whatever he'd been doing when Harry and Neville had entered the kitchens.

Neville waited until he was out of earshot to say, "A bit overenthusiastic, that one, isn't he?"

"Yeah, a bit. He's a friend, though--he used to be the Malfoys' house elf, but I tricked Malfoy Senior into freeing him."

Neville winced in sympathy for the small creature. "Poor thing. I'd be a bit off my rocker as well if I had to live with the Malfoys."

After turning down a number of different pastries, fruits, and desserts--although Harry accepted a plate of peach cobbler and Neville had no problem allowing the house elves to shove a tray full of glazed, fruit-filled pastries into his hands--they seated themselves at a small table in a corner, which seemed to have appeared out of thin air as soon as their presence was known. Within moments, more elves were crowding around, this time with pitchers and glasses, offering up tea, juice, milk, anything they wanted.

Neville, watching as one of the elves poured him a glass of orange juice--his drink of choice, much preferable (in his opinion, anyway) to the coffee Harry opted for--asked Harry in a hesitant voice, "So... what exactly _did_ you get up to this summer?"

Harry, who up until that moment had been occupied with trying to figure out how to eat his cobbler without disturbing the whipped cream on top of it--he wanted to save that part for last--shrugged and said, "Well, you know the basics already. What d'you want to know?"

"What's Bulgaria like? And the Quidditch team you're playing for now?" Neville had already been told about most of what had gone on--one of the perks of being Harry's closest friend included being privy to information the vast majority of the school would positively _salivate _over--but Harry, outside of outlining the major events of his summer, hadn't coughed up too many details about what things had been _like_. Unbeknownst to Neville, Harry had left out a few other details, too; he hadn't admitted to the fact that he and Viktor were anything more than good friends yet, although he was planning on doing that sometime soon (before Neville found out the hard way), and likewise he also hadn't mentioned the fact that he was a little more creature and a little less human than he'd previously thought. Come to think of it, he should probably mention _that_ to Neville sometime soon, too; with any luck, the other boy would be able to point him in the direction of some more information on the subject of his heritage. Neville _was_ a pureblood, after all, and although that didn't necessarily mean that he would know anything more about it than Harry did--or Viktor, for that matter; he was pureblooded as well, but Bulgaria and England were a lot different and it wouldn't be a big surprise that something one of them knew about, the other didn't--but it was still worth a try. Besides, Harry had a feeling that keeping secrets from Neville would do nothing but make things tougher for himself in the long run. At least if Neville knew what all was going on, Harry could still go to him for advice or aid, should it come down to that.

Shoveling a forkful of cobbler into his mouth, he said thickly, "S'nice." Swallowing, he continued (in a much easier-to-interpret voice, now that he wasn't talking with his mouth full), "The team's great, too. I was a bit worried they wouldn't like me at first, but they were all really friendly and everything." He grinned. "They can play a mean game of Quidditch, too--we're at the top of the league right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if most of the team gets selected for the World Cup again next year."

Neville took a big bite out of his cherry turnover, hastily holding the pastry over his plate as some of the filling oozed out, narrowly missing ending up in his lap. Swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked, "What does this mean for the House team, then? You can't still play for Gryffindor, can you?"

Harry took his time answering, picking up his coffee mug and taking a swig. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the strong, rich brew. Merlin, but the house elves made good coffee. It would almost be worth finishing his last two years of schooling at Hogwarts just to be able to drink the coffee every morning.

Finally, after he'd downed a couple more mouthfuls, he said, "No, I suppose I can't. One more reason for everyone to hate me."

"Ah, come off it, Harry. You're playing for a _professional team_. They'll be a bit put out, I'm sure--I mean, you're one of the best seekers we've ever had--but they'll find someone to fill your spot."

"Yeah, I guess. I just don't want them thinking I'm abandoning them or something, y'know? I mean, Ron's a brainless arse and Ginny's not much better, but no one else on the team's ever done anything to me."

Neville shrugged. "Look at it this way: would you rather play the game you love with good friends--oh, and make money at it, too, I suppose--or play the game you love at a less advanced level with people you honestly don't give a damn about?"

A small smile quirked the corners of Harry's lips up. "It sounds so easy when you put it that way."

"Well, isn't it?" He bit into a second pastry, the blueberry filling inside it dripping onto the plate from between his fingers.

"Yeah. I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else... crazy as it seems, I feel a bit guilty about leaving them in the lurch like this."

"Understandable," Neville murmured.

"Yeah."

They were both quiet for a moment before Harry broke the silence. "No one knows it's me yet."

"What d'you mean?" Neville asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Vratsa. We haven't told anyone that it's _me_ playing for Vratsa."

"But wouldn't they have to announce you at games and such? Or do they do things differently in Bulgaria?"

"We all get announced, but we haven't been using my real name. The media would've gone mad over it, and I sort of didn't want my name and location splashed all over the papers all summer. Y'know, with the whole everybody's-favorite-target thing," Harry explained, taking another sip of his coffee. "We're planning on letting that little bit of information slip at the match on Friday."

"You'd best keep your Beater's bat with you to ward off all the reporters after the game, then," Neville joked. "I can see the headlines now: "_Boy-Who-Lived On His Deathbed: Crushed By Mobbing Reporters_."

Harry picked up one of Neville's pastries and chucked it at him; it bounced off his shoulder and disappeared underneath the table. Neville grabbed his shoulder dramatically, exclaiming "Ow! Merlin, I think you broke it!" Unfortunately, he was grinning the whole time so it wasn't really that convincing of an act. All the same, Harry couldn't hold back a laugh. It surprised him a little, even though it probably shouldn't have; he'd never really seen Neville being playful before, at least not in anything more than the occasional joking comment.

Things quieted down a little after that, and they ate mostly in silence for a little while. Key words there: a little while. It wasn't long before Neville commented idly, "Blimey, it's a bit hot in here, isn't it?"

Harry voiced his agreement. "Absolutely _roasting_. It's the stoves, I expect." His gaze wandered over to the row of stoves, where the house elves were hard at work preparing food for breakfast the next morning. He turned back to Neville just in time to see the other boy undoing the top couple buttons of his dress shirt. He followed suit, reveling in the sudden rush of air as it touched his sweaty skin. He was still a bit on the warm side, though, so he undid the rest of the buttons and flapped the sides of his shirt, trying to get some air moving underneath it.

A sudden choking sound drew his attention to Neville, who was staring at the general vicinity of his neck and choking quite loudly and violently on the chunk of blueberry pastry lodged in his throat.

Hastily, he drew his wand and pointed it at the other boy. "Anapneo!"

The small piece flew out of Neville's mouth and shot across the room. Death-by-pastry now averted, he burst out laughing. Harry looked at him in confusion. He'd just choked; shouldn't he be scared or traumatized or something?

"Harry, have you seen your neck lately?" the slightly pudgy boy asked him, the laughter dying down but humor still quite evident in his voice.

"Um, no, I haven't," Harry answered confusedly. "Why?"

"You've got a bite mark. There--" he pointed at Harry's neck, although that didn't narrow the field down too much considering he was sitting all the way across the table and thus wasn't close enough to be very specific "--right where your neck meets your shoulder. Merlin, I can't believe you didn't notice it."

Harry snatched up a fork and transfigured it into a small mirror, holding it up and angling it so he could examine his neck/shoulder area. Sure enough, a set of teeth marks marred the juncture of where his neck sloped into his shoulder. The outline of every tooth was completely visible, dark purple in color and standing out quite clearly from the rest of his skin. Flushing, he rubbed his fingers over the bite, careful not to press down too hard. The previous night rushed back to the forefront of his mind--complete with Viktor turning his neck into a veritable chew toy.

"So who was it?" Neville asked curiously, still grinning. "Anyone I know?"

"Umm..." What was he supposed to say to that? _'Yeah, you and ninety percent of the Wizarding World'_?

"I'll assume that's a 'yes'."

* * *

The next day passed with agonizing slowness. The only thing on Harry's mind the entire time--throughout meals, classes, hell, even while he was taking a _piss_--was the fact that in only a few short hours he'd be seeing Viktor again. Of course, 'a few short hours' was still far too long for his tastes, but under the circumstances he really didn't have any room to complain. If they hadn't gotten to meet all the time for practices and games, he wouldn't have seen Viktor again for _months_. All the same, he was looking forward to Christmas break and the window of opportunity it signified.

By the time dinner--and, subsequently, Viktor's impending arrival--finally came around, Neville was looking just as eager for him to go as he was himself. That was understandable; putting up with a bored, impatient Harry all day would frustrate _anyone_, even someone as patient and laidback as Neville.

All the same, Neville's smile was just a tad too relieved for Harry's tastes when Mr. Tall, Dark, and Duck-footed himself appeared in the doorway and departure was imminent.

His first instinct, oddly enough, was to sprint over to the older man--to his horror, not entirely unlike running through a field of flowers with his arms open wide, like in those cheesy movies his Aunt had so enjoyed watching when he was younger--and grab him by the nearest appendage (an arm, maybe, or his shoulders) and snog him senseless in full view of the entire student body. Fortunately, his common sense wasn't so addled that he actually followed through on the urge. Even after a long night and an even longer day, he still had enough brain cells functioning to realize that it would be a very bad idea to do so.

Instead, he said a quick farewell to Neville before getting up from the table and making a beeline for the door, forcing himself to keep his pace to a walk rather than the full-out run he was itching to break into.

Once within arms' reach of Viktor (after what seemed a torturously long walk to the doorway from the far end of the Gryffindor table), he broke into a grin and called out, "Fancy seeing you here!"

Viktor smirked down at him--their height difference didn't allow for anything else--and started to reply, probably with some sort of smart-arse comment knowing the surly twenty-year-old's sense of humor. Before he could get it out, though, he was interrupted by a loud voice behind him. "Shove over, would you? You're blocking the door."

Viktor turned to find Ron standing behind him, scowling. He was accompanied by Hermione, whose facial expression made it clear she was a tad uncomfortable with the situation. Viktor crossed his arms and shifted so that he was blocking the entire doorway instead of just most of it.

"Better?" he asked, the frigid look in his eyes completely at odds with his polite tone of voice. His face, however, wasn't so ambiguous. Hard and remote and decidedly hostile, his expression couldn't be construed as anything but a challenge, even by someone as thick-headed as Ron Weasley.

Harry stood frozen, watching the confrontation. It was like seeing a car wreck; horrible to witness, but you just couldn't look away.

Ron's expression darkened even further and he started to reply hotly, but Hermione smacked his shoulder and hissed, "Ron, shut up!"

Turning to Viktor, she adopted an apologetic tone and said, "Sorry about him, Viktor. It's good to see you again." It wasn't lost on either of the darker-haired men that she deliberately left Harry out of both her apology and greeting. "You haven't been answering any of my letters, how are you?"

"Vell, up until a minute ago I vas perfectly fine. Now, though, I am thinking I vould rather be leaving."

The look on Hermione's face once she'd registered his rejection of her was priceless. Obviously she'd thought she would be greeted warmly. She'd probably expected Viktor to be pleased to see her, too, and eager to strike up a conversation with her. Harry couldn't help but think that was rather stupid of her - she _knew_ he'd spent over half his summer in Bulgaria, and yet she didn't realize that the person he'd been living with the entire time might not be too happy with her treatment of him? And she was supposed to be the smartest witch in their year - hah!

Viktor, of course, wasn't going to make small talk with her now that he knew what kind of person she really was. He set great store by loyalty, and she'd made it abundantly clear that she didn't have it in any large amounts, if at all.

"Viktor?" she asked, frowning.

He ignored her, glancing over at Harry. "Ready to go?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

The two of them started to walk away, but before they could get more than a few steps, Ron seemed to recall that he was, in fact, capable of human speech. "Yeah, that's right, run away with your tails between your legs like the cowards you are!"

Harry whipped around and opened his mouth to snarl something back--he'd had the entire summer (not to mention his classes, during which "Mentally Bitch at Ron and Hermione" had become a favorite way to pass the time) to come up with vicious insults to throw at the redhead and he felt that now would be an opportune time to make use of them--but Viktor beat him to it, a ferocious look on the Seeker's face that Harry had never seen before, even when they'd argued. Viktor tended to be the less volatile of the two when they fought.

"The only covards I see here are _you_--" he jabbed a finger in Ron's direction "--and _her_." He glared at Hermione, leaving no doubt as to identity of the "her" he was referring to. "Anyvone vith guts vould stand by their friend. _You_ abandoned him. You should be ashamed!"

"Ashamed?" Ron sneered. "That's rich, coming from someone that knows more Dark Arts than most Death Eaters. Been putting them to use lately, Vicky?"

Viktor's expression grew even colder, if that was possible. "I haff never used my knowledge in such a vay, and I never plan on it either, you conceited bastard. And yes, you should be ashamed, you idiot, I thought Gryffindors vere supposed to be brave, not jealous, sneaky rats like you." Almost as an afterthought, he snapped, "And don't call me Vicky!"

Finished for the moment with Ron, he turned to Hermione and said acidly, "I knew _he_--" he gestured at Ron, whose face and ears had turned a lovely shade of scarlet "--vas a vorthless friend, the Tournament proved that, but you... I thought better of you. You shame your blood and your family and I'm embarrassed to haff ever called you vone of my friends." Having said everything he felt the need to, he took Harry by the elbow and stormed away without giving either of the red-faced Gryffindors a chance to retort. (Well, unless you count the faint squeak of outrage--which, given a little more time, might've become actual words--from Hermione just before Viktor slammed the door behind them.)

Once outside in the cool evening air, Harry murmured a quick, "Thanks."

"For vot?" Viktor asked, confused. Harry glanced over at him; his face was still red with anger, and the scowl was in full force.

"For sticking up for me like that. I mean, I know Hermione was your friend..."

Viktor's voice was firm when he replied. "She is not my friend anymore. Anyvone who can act as she did is not vorth being friends vith."

Harry smiled slightly. "Thanks anyway, though." They continued the walk down to the gates in silence, everything that needed to be said having already been voiced.

* * *

Friday came upon them with frightening speed. Well, frightening for Harry, anyway; it was the day he would finally be unmasked, and he honestly had no clue what the fans' reactions would be like. The reporters were predictable enough--they'd just go rabid and attempt to corner him anywhere they possibly could for an "exclusive interview", which would make getting to and from the pitch and locker rooms a nightmare--but it was Vratsa's supporters he was most worried about. What if they didn't take kindly to a foreigner playing on their team? He couldn't imagine them being too terribly excited about it; after all, he'd heard plenty of grumbling among his fellow students about who was being signed to fill in Quidditch rosters for the British and Irish League teams, and if there was one thing that seemed to be universal, it was dedication to and enthusiasm (and, in some cases, fanaticism) for sports.

The anxiety ate away at him all day. Butterflies ran rampant in his stomach, making it extremely difficult to eat anything substantial or concentrate on his classes and schoolwork. He was almost--_almost_--grateful when Viktor arrived to bring him to the game and he no longer had to sit in awkward, jittery silence with Neville (the fellow Gryffindor boy had tried several times to initiate a conversation, but Harry hadn't been in anything even _close_ to a fit state for lighthearted banter or intelligent, thoughtful conversation about... well, to be honest he wasn't even entirely sure what Neville had been trying to get him to talk about).

Unfortunately, the nerves that were attempting to twist his guts into a huge knot didn't seem to want to dissipate as the match drew closer.

He remained tense and fidgety the whole time he was in the dressing room. While putting his pads and robe on, his hands shook with slight tremors--even when he put them on his thighs and clenched the fabric of his Quidditch breeches between his fingers to still the shaking. His palms were sweaty as he adjusted his flying gear, and his fingers kept slipping on the buckles and catches. Even with his enhanced eyesight, everything was stark and difficult to focus on under the harsh lighting as he gave his broom a last once-over, checking it for bent twigs, gouges, and anything else that might affect it's performance.

Even Viktor's swift hug and peck to the lips before they left the locker room to fly onto the pitch did nothing to calm his buzzing nerves. His breathing seemed unnaturally loud and erratic as the door banged shut behind him and he straddled his broom, knuckles clenched so tightly on the handle that he was sure his fingers were white with the strain of it. He couldn't actually see the blood leeching itself from his skin--wearing gloves made it kind of difficult to see your hands, y'know--but he knew it all the same.

Finally, the time came for the team to be announced. In rapid Bulgarian--for the millionth time, Harry was grateful for the translation charm Viktor had cast on him--the Quidditch announcer's voice echoed around the full-to-capacity stadium (both the Vultures and the opposing team had a fairly large and dedicated fanbase): "Hello, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the eagerly anticipated match between the Vratsa Vultures and the Svishtov Sharks!"

The crowd's response was quite vocal--Harry, despite having played in quite a large number of Quidditch games (even a couple professional ones before term started) over the last several years, was still rather shocked by the sheer volume of all the screaming and shouting. It put the Hogwarts games he'd played in to shame.

"For the Sharks--an impressive line-up this year, I must say--we have Zoravkov! Angelov! Lovkanova! Boyanov! Mihaylov! Hristov! Kostov!"

Harry swallowed tightly, his throat suddenly feeling constricted.

"The Vultures have quite the line-up this year as well. We've got Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Volkov! Krum!" There was a surprised sound, as if the announcer had just realized something, and then he continued, "The Vultures' current second Beater--as of the last match, Identity Undisclosed--has finally got a name, everyone! Vultures fans, I'm pleased to introduce _Harry Potter_!"


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Apparently my continuity is almost as horrible as my updating habits... :P I didn't write the accents (except for Viktor's) in this chapter, mainly because if Harry's had the translation charm cast on him, they shouldn't even _be _there. A huge thanks to the reviewer who pointed that out. :) Revising this is gonna be a real bitch, I think, with all these plot and character issues that keep cropping up.

A word of warning: things heat up a bit, relationship-wise, in this chapter. There's nothing R-rated (IMO, anyway), but I figured I should let you guys know in case you'd rather not read that bit.

That said, many thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers, as well as everyone who added this story to their favorites or alerts. You guys are awesome! And extremely patient!

* * *

A shocked silence hung over the pitch for a long moment. Then, like the high, irritating drone of an insect, the murmuring started. It was small at first, hardly noticeable, but rose in pitch until things once again hovered near the usual volume--an ear-splitting roar.

Even then it seemed eerily quiet to Harry, as if he were underwater, his hearing liquid-muffled. Maybe it was just nerves?

He took his place on the pitch, hoping the jello-like quality of his knees wouldn't hamper his kick-off. It would be humiliating--in the oh-sweet-Merlin-I'm-never-going-to-live-this-down sort of way, at that--to screw something up right off the start, when he'd done just fine--excelled, even--in his only two professional games to date.

In that moment of quiet before the game began--while the team Captains were shaking hands and the referee was reiterating the rules they'd all heard a thousand times over and could probably recite word-for-word--Harry glanced over at Viktor. The dark-haired Seeker was standing in his usual moody slouch, his expression grim--as it tended to be whenever he was under the public's eye.

As if sensing Harry's desperate need for some sort of calming influence, Viktor's dark eyes flickered over to meet his own. A faint smiled curved upwards at the edges of his lips. It was a mere ghost of the teasing Cheshire grin Harry was fast becoming used to (uncommon though it was), but it was for Harry and Harry alone, and that was all that mattered.

He gave a weak smile in return, doing his best to hide the fear that threatened to bubble up inside and drown him.

The whistle was blown, a sharp, harsh sound that was hardly audible against the backdrop of screaming, chanting, and jeering fans. Fourteen players exploded into action, slamming their feet against the pitch and shoving off with shocking speed.

The quaffle was snatched out of mid-air by one of the Sharks' Chasers and held against his chest as he (Zoravkov if the announcer's frenzied chatter was to be believed) rocketed off in the direction of the goal posts.

Harry tracked the man's progress with his eyes, clutching his Beater's bat a little more tightly; his palm was slippery with sweat, and he would rather Avada himself than drop his bat in front of a stadium full of people. Taking a few slow, lung-achingly deep breaths to help steady his singing nerves, he shot off in pursuit of the nearest bludger.

* * *

Twenty minutes and a few goals later found Harry hammering yet another enchanted leather ball with all his strength. An unpleasant jolt shot up his arm, but it was worth the momentary pain; the bludger careened off towards one of the opposing Chasers.

Unfortunately (well, for the Vultures, anyway), Angelov managed to duck in time, and the bludger shot off in pursuit of Ivanova instead.

A little more fortunately, the next bludger he whacked nearly knocked Hristov, the Sharks' Seeker, clear off his broom. The crowd roared its appreciation--or outrage, depending on which team they supported--as the light-haired man reeled from the impact.

"Another great hit by Potter! He's really been Beating up a storm out there today, ladies and gentlemen. He's not the only Vratsa player showing some serious determination; Dimitrov, who was out for a number of matches last season with a recurring shoulder injury, has been a scoring _machine _today with three consecutive goals to his name. Vultures lead the Sharks fifty to ten."

A blue-robed Chaser--Lovkanova, if Harry's memory served him correctly--shot past, the quaffle tucked under her arm, and Harry sent another bludger after her. His accuracy was dead-on, but Lovkanova wasn't about to make herself an easy target. She barrel-rolled to the left, out of the bludger's intended path, but she still didn't manage to escape it entirely.

Instead of the bludger to the head it was meant to be, she took it to the shoulder; she dropped the quaffle, and Dimitrov, who'd been flying underneath her, caught it.

Harry watched with a satisfied smile as Dimitrov streaked away down the pitch, heading for the goal hoops.

He paid for his momentary distraction by not seeing the bludger coming up behind him until it was nearly too late. He jerked sideways a split second before it smashed into his head, throwing his arm up reflexively. He recovered quickly from the near miss, though, and shot off after the Bludger, beater's bat at the ready.

One vicious swing later, Zoravkov's nose was gushing blood like a fountain, and another roar went up from the crowd as Ivanova scored on a tricky behind-the-back pass from Dimitrov.

Volkov swooped down to fly beside him, a wide grin splitting his face as he listened to the crowd's enthusiastic response. "We're _pounding _them!" he announced gleefully in rapid Bulgarian, punctuating the exclamation with a swipe at a nearby bludger. It connected with a resounding crack, sending the enchanted leather ball streaking off towards one of the blue-robed players across the pitch.

Volkov's excitement was contagious. Harry felt an answering grin forming on his face as he shouted his agreement.

Volkov opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by the announcer's cry. "And it looks like the Seekers have spotted the snitch!"

Both Beaters whipped around, scanning the sky for Viktor. He was easily identified--he and the Sharks' Seeker were rocketing straight down, performing what looked like a Kamikaze run against the pitch, and almost every eye in the stadium was focused on the two speed-blurred figures. They were neck-and-neck, both lying flush against their broom handles in a desperate bid for more speed as the ground drew nearer.

They both pulled up at the last moment, streaking away after the snitch as it apparently decided that staying still was vastly overrated. It shot off towards the Sharks' goalposts with the two Seekers in close pursuit.

The tiny golden ball stopped there, fluttering near the center post.

So close they almost appeared to be fused together, the two men were scarcely more than a flailing mass of tangled limbs as they came to an abrupt halt near it. They elbowed and shoved each other, grabbing blindly for the snitch.

Viktor was renowned as the best Seeker in the world for a reason, though, and when it was all said and done, he was the one to hold it up, triumphant.

They celebrated the win, of course; there was plenty of hugging and back-slapping and bellowed congratulations between teammates as they all crowded around their Seeker. Though elated by the outcome of the match, it wasn't the teary-eyed, overwhelmed-with-emotion, scream-yourself-hoarse sort of win. After all, it was only a regular season game (albeit one against a very skilled opponent). No, that kind of rejoicing would be saved for the playoffs.

With the roar of the crowd--twenty thousand strong--still ringing in their ears, they flew their victory lap and shot off towards the locker room. They had a night of boozing and dancing and clowning around to prepare for--after interviews and autograph signing, of course.

Oh, the trials and tribulations of life as a professional athlete.

* * *

The locker room door had barely closed behind them before Viktor was shoving Harry back against the nearest wall, catching his mouth in a hard, almost desperate kiss. Their tongues battled, more out of reflex than any real need to establish dominance. There was more spit involved than was actually attractive, but neither of them seemed to mind.

Viktor pulled back after a moment and began to mouth his way down the long column of Harry's neck, aiming for the juncture where it met his shoulder. The (surprisingly aggressive) rasp of lips and stubble against his skin was heaven, especially when Viktor reached his destination and bit down on the flesh, using just enough pressure to leave a mark.

Harry moaned, taking Viktor's sweat-musk scent deep into his lungs when he inhaled. Even musky, dirty, and sweating to high heaven, Viktor was one of the best things he'd ever smelled. He ducked his head and darted his tongue out to lick a stripe up the side of the Seeker's neck, ending just below his jawline.

Viktor full-body shuddered at the sensation, then growled, nipping at his earlobe in retaliation. Harry leaned his head to the side, giving Viktor the chance to mark his skin up to his heart's content. Even as he did so, his hands shifted downwards to settle at waist height, clutching Viktor's hips. His grip was just shy of bruising.

Judging from the ragged, wanton sound the action tore from Viktor--silent, stoic, always-in-control Viktor--he wasn't at all adverse to the display of strength.

Viktor pressed himself even closer, if that was possible, and nudged Harry's thighs apart. He rubbed his knee against the growing bulge evident through the sweat-darkened fabric of Harry's Quidditch breeches.

Harry arched into the contact, tilting his head back and groaning. His eyes stayed open, though, and when Viktor's fingers reached up to tangle in his sweat-soaked hair, gripping a little too tightly to compensate for the wetness, he latched onto Viktor's neck with his teeth.

Spurred on by the pressure against his crotch and the sharp pain of his hair being tugged--albeit rather gently--he began biting (and then sucking and licking) the mother of all hickeys into a patch of skin just below the Bulgarian's jaw. A bitten-off moan escaped him, muffled even further by Viktor's salty-hot skin against his lips, as they rocked together, lost in their own little two-person world of heat and friction and ecstasy.

Their two-person world abruptly became a three-person one, however, when a sock--sodden and reeking of sweat--whacked Viktor in the back of the head. He shied away from the projectile, startled, and Harry's head collided with the underside of his jaw. He jerked away from the younger boy, letting loose a torrent of cuss words in his native tongue.

"Come on, not in front of the rest of us!" Dimitrov complained from somewhere farther into the room. Viktor rounded on him, Death Scowl in full force. Harry did the same, but his attention was directed at Dimitrov's feet, which were sporting only one sock between the two of them.

Having identified the sock-thrower, Harry calmly snatched the material up with his thumb and pointer finger, grimacing, and chucked it back. His Beater's aim wasn't quite as good without a bat in hand, though, and he missed Dimitrov's face by several inches. It sailed harmlessly over his head and landed on the floor by Levski's duffel bag.

Viktor's countryman, who up until that point had been busy trying to peel himself out of his far-too-clingy Quidditch breeches, glanced over at them and smirked. It was clear that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation. "Actually, I'd like to keep watching if you don't mind," he said mildly.

"Perv," Viktor accused, scowling at him, too, before turning back to Harry.

The mood was ruined by that point, though, and he did little more than ghost his mouth over Harry's before stepping back and walking--duck-footed stride even more pronounced than usual--over to his designated locker.

Harry, a little pissed off that they'd been interrupted just when things were getting good, shot the two overly-amused Bulgarians a venomous look as he followed Viktor's lead. They smirked back at him, entirely unabashed, and Levski even had the guts to crack a blue-balls joke, eyeing the pronounced bulge in the front of Harry's breeches.

Harry snarled at him silently, but even with all the muscle he'd put on over the course of the summer, Levski wasn't the least bit intimidated. He was immune to death glares--after all, he _had _spent several years already in the company of Viktor Krum.

Harry and Viktor both stripped down hastily; the faster they got into the showers--and out of Levski and Dimitrov's sights--the better. After shedding his clothes, Harry grabbed his shower supplies--towel and soap. He crossed the locker room in what felt like record time. Noticing Viktor padding after him, also divested of his uniform and protective gear, he reached back and twined Viktor's fingers through his own, urging him to walk faster by tugging on his arm.

Once out of the locker room, Harry dropped his towel by the doorway and made a beeline for the farthest, most isolated shower stall. He could feel the amused eyes of his teammates on them as he passed by, leading Viktor, whose expression seemed to be lightening by stages the farther he got from Dimitrov and Levski.

Reaching their destination, Harry released Viktor's hand to fumble with the hot and cold knobs. After a moment, steaming hot water gushed from the shower head, sluicing over them and running in long rivulets down their chests as they centered themselves underneath the spray.

Viktor took the soap from Harry's hand and stood behind the shorter youth, lathering his body with soap suds in sweeping, leisurely strokes. He nuzzled at the back of Harry's neck as he worked, pressing a series of lingering kisses to the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.

Even with Viktor dragging things out, teasing Harry relentlessly, it wasn't long before he was finished. He'd scrubbed every inch of Harry's body within reach--including his hair, which remained unruly even under the pounding spray of the shower. A quick rinse off, and then it was Harry's turn to exact his revenge.

He rubbed circles across Viktor's back to start off with. Next, he trailed his nimble hands--Seekers' hands, although they'd been put to a much different use of late--over the Bulgarian's shoulders and down his sides. He kept his touch light, teasing even. Hard, solid muscle jumped under his hands as he slid his palms over Viktor's stomach, tracing random patterns in the leftover suds with his fingertips.

Viktor sighed against his ear, murmuring, "If you keep that up, Harry, ve are going to haff more problems than just getting out of here vithout being trampled by reporters. I don't know if you haff noticed, but our teammates are of a rather impatient breed."

He glanced downward meaningfully, as if his point hadn't been made clear enough by words alone. Harry followed his gaze and grinned. "A bit late to stop now, don't you think?"

"Actually, your timing's just about perfect," a gravelly male voice--distinctly Volkov--called out from the entrance to the locker room. "Get your horny asses out here and dressed, you two! Everybody else is almost ready, and we've got an after-party to carouse and over-indulge at!"

"Fuck the after-party!" Viktor shot back, the frustration showing quite plainly in his voice. He didn't wait for a reply, diving in for another water-drenched kiss.

Laughter exploded from the doorway, followed by various raucous exclamations of mock pride ("Aww, he said 'fuck'! Our little Viktor's growing up!"), not to mention a few more gutter-minded comments ("Bet he wants to fuck more than the just the after-party...").

Thankfully, the Vratsa Vultures as a whole tended to have a _small _measure of mercy for each other, and they all pretended not to hear the rhythmic sounds of love-making (well, the ones that could be heard over the roar of every single shower running full-blast, anyway) echoing in the other room as they finished getting dressed.

* * *

Getting out of the locker room after the game proved to be quite the endeavor.

Well, doing it without being harassed by the media did, anyway. Zograf was almost mobbed by reporters when he tried to leave, and came staggering back into the locker room only moments later, looking as if he'd been witness to something rather frightening. "It's a _madhouse _out there!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, still looking a bit dazed from the multitude of near-blinding camera flashes.

Volkov shot the Keeper a look that quite plainly said, 'Well, _duh_.'

"What did you expect?" he asked, amusement coloring his voice as he finished stuffing his sweat, blood, and dirt-coated Quidditch robes--the latter caused by an almost-but-not-quite collision with the pitch--into his duffel bag and attempted to zip the bulging fabric shut. He turned his attention away from his shell-shocked fellow Vulture to struggle with the zipper and, when that yielded no better results, to rearrange some of the haphazardly-packed gear within.

"I knew it would be bad--I mean, it's _Harry Potter_, I'm not an idiot--but that..." He gestured wildly at the closed door. "That? That is ridiculous. Letting him go out there right now would be like throwing him into a nest of hungry Acromantulas!"

Harry, overhearing the "Acromantula" comment, shuddered. He'd actually experienced that particular event before, and would take fighting off every last one of Aragog's zillion or so children over facing the media circus waiting outside. Actually, he'd take a one-on-one duel with _Voldemort _over the reporters. He'd always hated being the center of attention, and while he knew 'International Quidditch Star' was a really dumb career choice if he wanted to stay out of the limelight, the pros were outweighing the cons so far. He supposed he could live with it, provided things quieted down after a while.

Those were the key words, though, weren't they? _'After a while.' _'After a while' certainly wasn't going to do him any good in the _now. _

He really didn't want to go out there--doubtless, the reporters were ready to eat him alive. Still, there was no other option. The anti-Apparation wards on the locker rooms were necessary for the security of the players (and to keep the paparazzi from snapping as many nude pictures of said players as they liked), but they were damned inconvenient.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself for the coming onslaught, he shoved the door open and stepped through it, Viktor close on his heels.

Zograf was right; the chaos and jostling that greeted him the second he stepped outside was borderline ludicrous. Cameras were flashing and people were shouting, pushing and elbowing each other to get to the front of the crowd.

Harry was reminded strongly of a pack of wolves, snapping and snarling at each other to decide who would get the first bite (ahem, _question_). The more ruthless and cunning were at the front, the "nice guys" forced to less desirable positions at the back. They would be left to scavenge for scraps after the others had taken their fill.

Even the analogy itself was rather frightening--if the reporters were the wolves, that meant he was the prey.

He must have frozen in the wake of all the chaos and disorder, because a gentle nudge came at the small of his back and he found himself being pushed forward so the rest of his teammates could slip out behind him. Zograf, Dimitrov, and a few of the reserves bolted for it, but the rest of the team stuck around out of some twisted, self-sacrificing sense of loyalty.

Viktor waited patiently, standing at his elbow and scowling ferociously at anyone that so much as glanced in his direction. (And there were a fair few people glancing at him--he was, after all, one of the best Seekers in the world (maybe even _the _best) and attracted reporters like flies to honey, no matter how much he disliked the attention.

Harry did his best to answer everything intelligently--not necessarily with the full, unedited truth, but decent, halfway thought-out answers nonetheless. Questions came at him swift and hard, a verbal barrage the likes of which he'd never even _seen _before, let alone suffered through. The media crowded closer, snapping pictures and yelling their questions at increasingly higher volumes lest they go unnoticed.

From the center of the melee, a short, scruffy-looking wizard with an abnormally large nose shouted, "Potter! How do you feel about the fans' reaction?" Harry started, surprised. He hadn't needed the translation charm to understand that one; it had been in English. English with an ungodly heavy Scottish burr, which very nearly required a translation charm in itself, but still--_English_. Why in Merlin's name was a British reporter there?

Someone else piped up in Bulgarian, attempting to overshadow the previous speaker, and yet another followed suit--the always-dreaded domino effect.

He could already feel a migraine coming on.

* * *

Silence, thick and heavy as one of Viktor's old coarse-furred Durmstrang cloaks, fell over the Gryffindor Common Room as Harry stepped through the portrait hole. He tensed up immediately, already anticipating the endless sea of questions that were sure to come. Even the mere thought of standing there and pretending to have some last vestige of patience left was daunting, and he hoped fervently that the Gryffindors would have mercy on him and just leave the subject alone.

No such luck, of course.

He'd barely gone a couple of steps before a lanky boy with remarkably bad acne, a third or fourth year from the looks of him, called out, "Hey, Potter! Since when are you a Beater?"

"I thought you were a Seeker?" someone else chimed in.

"Yeah, what's that all about?"

"Have you been practicing with them all summer?"

"What's it like, playing professionally?"

Harry ducked his head and played deaf, ignoring the questions. He skirted the edge of the room, determinedly pretending not to hear any of its occupants, and headed up to the dormitory. He'd spent two and a half hours being peppered with questions by the media; he figured he'd done enough question-answering for one night.

Ninety percent of what people were yelling had probably been answered at some point in those interviews, anyway. If they had a real, burning need to know, they could read the goddamn newspaper. He was sure he'd be plastered all over the front page the next morning; any news at all about him seemed to be "big news".

The dorm was empty when he got up to it, which he was thankful for. As drained as he was, he really didn't want to deal with a certain jealous, back-stabbing redhead. In fact, peeling off his clothes and falling into bed was about as much as he could manage after the stress of the game, the media's hounding, and the fun-but-exhausting after-party he'd just left.

He used the bare minimum of attention he could get away with to cast the protective charms on his curtains, and then tucked his wand under his pillow, rolling over and flopping out in a boneless sprawl that took up most of the bed.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning was absolute _hell_.

Harry had barely gotten the chance to sit down and fill his plate before a post owl was alighting on the table beside him, delivering the newest edition of the Daily Prophet. Harry absently tucked a knut into the small pouch attached to the owl's leg before turning his attention to the paper.

He paid no mind as the owl snatched a piece of bacon from his plate and took wing again, too busy grimacing at the massive headline that dominated the front page-- "Boy-Who-Lived Revealed As Vratsa Quidditch Star!" Underneath it was a picture of him from the night before, squinting unattractively under the onslaught of camera flashes. (Sometimes heightened vision _wasn't _a good thing.)

Viktor was visible over his shoulder, and the look on his face was familiar--Harry had begun to refer to it as "The Patented Viktor Krum Media Scowl". Viktor hated having his picture taken almost as much as he hated giving interviews, and it showed.

Harry had to admit, though, the surliness was rather...dare he say endearing? A faint smile graced his lips as he followed the curves of Viktor distinct profile with his eyes, from the hawk-like nose to the strong jawline to the thick, heavy eyebrows, angled together into a forbidding scowl. He would never be described as conventionally handsome, but Viktor's face held more character than any pretty-boy model's ever could.

His eyes strayed farther down the page, skimming the article--might as well see how badly they'd twisted his words this time, right? He didn't doubt that they would be. His track record with the British media was rather abysmal, after all, and it was highly likely they'd screwed something up _somewhere_.

He still had no clue how the British reporters had gotten to the pitch so quickly. Why would they have any interest in a Bulgarian Quidditch game? They shouldn't have even heard about his unveiling until long after the game finished, and by that point he might have been lucky enough to maneuver his way through the hoards and Apparate away to the after-party without much hassle.

Upon further inspection of the article, he was grudgingly pleased to find that most of his answers were given with an acceptable degree of accuracy. They weren't perfect, but they vaguely resembled his original replies, so he could maybe forgive the media a bit of artistic license.

Any small amount of relief he might have been feeling about the lack of vicious slandering and questioning of his character and/or mental stability in the article was swiftly dispelled, however, by the arrival of a scowling redhead in hand-me-down robes.

"Bet you feel right smug about this, don't you?" Ron said bitterly, tossing a second--and, it should be noted, far more unkempt--copy of the Prophet onto the table. "You claim you don't want to be famous, you just want to be _normal_," he sneered, "and then you prance around like a great bloody git, making sure they plaster you all over the front page. You're a real piece of work, you know that, Potter?"

Harry stared at him, flabbergasted. _Ron Weasley _was calling _him _a git? How was it even possible for someone to be that much of a hypocrite? Was he dropped on his head as a baby? Hexed one too many times? There had to be _something_.

"I _do _want to be normal!" he snapped back. "And you've got no room to be talking, Weasley. You abandon your best friend, out of _jealousy_, mind you, and you've still got the nerve to call _me _a hypocrite? What the hell kind of person does that make you?"

"That's enough, you guys! Stop it! Just stop it!"

Both Harry and Ron jerked around in surprise as a third voice joined the fray--a very familiar one, at that, although neither of them had ever heard it raised in anger before. Neville stormed over to the table and shot Ron a glare, one with a shocking amount of venom behind it. "I'm sick of listening to you both tear each other apart like a couple of rabid animals! You don't have to get along, but can't you at least stop snarling at each other every chance you get?"

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but after a second glance at the infuriated look on Neville's face, he settled for a nasty parting glare and made his retreat. Neville couldn't really be called much of a fighter, but two against one still wasn't much for odds.

"Wow, Neville," Harry commented as he watched Ron stalk away. "Unleashing your inner lion, eh?"

"I...I guess you could say that, yeah."


End file.
